The Ides of March
by Balooney
Summary: Lauren Mallory, the vengeful ex-mistress of Senator Edward Cullen, reveals his and his family's darkest secrets - forcing Edward to remember the sordid details of his whirlwind romance with artist Isabella Swan. AH, AU.
1. A Note on the Cullen Family

******Author's Note: Thanks for reading this! This story is a work of fiction, and although it uses some references to American History, is not meant to depict a real-life family or president. All original ideas belong to the author, although key parings follow Twilight Canon. The story will be primarily centered around Edward and Bella, although it will include a few chapters on Rosalie and Emmett, Jasper and Alice, and hints of Carlisle & Esme. With the exception of this chapter, most other chapters will follow a story format. Lauren publishes The Ides of March in 2025. I prefer not to try and guess what will happen in the next decade, so I try to say as little as possible about that. I have modified Bella's date of birth to make the story work better. Most other elements are canon.**

****** This story has been modified as to fix some incongruities and spelling mistakes. **

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**A Note on the Cullen Family**

Carlisle Cullen I arrived to the United States on the Mayflower in 1620. He was the first man of the cloth to perform religious services in what would become the United States. His descendant, Carlisle Cullen III, was one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence. His nephew, William Cullen IV, served as the first United States Ambassador to Britain, and later, to Mexico.

The Cullen family has produced four US Presidents, two of them in the 20th century; eight Supreme Court judges and more than 60 legislators. Since the Senate's inception, (with six exceptions), a Cullen family member has served it. The Cullens are blood relatives of the incumbent Royal House of Orange (the Dutch Royal family), the Swedish Royal Family, the House of Savoy, and the (now dethroned) German Royal family. Carlisle Cullen's current wife, Elizabeth holds the title of Lady Masen and Duchess of Haleshire. Since 1843, it has become traditional that the children of a Cullen and British aristocracy relinquish their right to a British noble title.

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Forbes Magazine has estimated Carlisle Cullen's personal wealth to exceed 10 billion dollars. As of now, Carlisle Cullen is the owner of eight historic properties across the United States. Their value, including all the artwork and furniture therein, is thought to exceed 800 million USD. The family is also in possession of an important collection of jewelery. The collection includes historically valuable pieces, acquired by the Cullens through marriage to European nobles.

Also in Carlisle's name are a large ranch in Texas, which has been in the family's name since 1842 and a ranch in California. In 1918, Victoria Cullen married the millionaire Jay Gatsby. The pair died childless, in 1922, leaving Jay Gatsby's mansion to Victoria's nephews. It is currently the property in which the family spends their summers. Other inherited holdings include an building in Mexico City's Paseo de la Reforma Avenue (purchased by John Jacob Cullen in 1901 after his tenure as Ambassador to Mexico ended, and reformed by Carlisle Cullen's father in 1933); a Kensington Garden property (owned by Lady Ethel of Hartforshire, who married Carlisle Cullen VI in 1856),an apartment in Paris purchased by Carlisle Cullen in 2000, a large house in Hawaii and apartments in Berlin and Ottawa since the 1980s.

The Cullen family owns stock in Shell, British Petroleum, General Motors, the Coca Cola Company, AT&T, Microsoft, Facebook, Google and the Yum! Company. Yum! operates KFC, Pizza Hut and Taco Bell worldwide.

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**On Carlisle Cullen X **

Carlisle John Cullen was born in 1950 to Carlisle John Cullen IX and to Lady Jane Suffolk, the granddaughter of a Dutch baron and daughter of the British Earl of Suffolk. He is a third cousin of George, Prince of Wales, through his mother. He was the 10th grandchild of US president, John Jacob Cullen (JJC) and his wife, the Austro-Hungarian Archduchess, Teresa. Carlisle is the only grandchild of JJC alive to this date, and the only one with descendants.

Carlisle's parents passed in a plane crash in 1960. His single, highly devout uncle, Reverend William Cullen, became his legal guardian. Cullen was raised austerely in a small house in Washington State. In 1952, his cousin William Jacob Cullen (WJC) became President of the United States.

In 1968, Carlisle was enrolled at Cambridge University, where he earned a BA in Political Science. He earned a J.D in Law from Harvard University in 1976, graduating Summa Cum Laude.

He ran to become a House Representative for the state of Washington and won in 1976. Cullen served as Senator for six years. In 1982, he was appointed US Ambassador to France, a post he held until 1987. In 1987, he was appointed US Ambassador to Canada. In 1990, Cullen became Secretary of Department of Justice under President Garret, a position he held until 1997, when he announced his candidacy to become Governor of Washington State. In 1998, he became Governor of Washington State.

Carlisle has been a fellow of the Harvard Corporation - Harvard's governing board - since 1983. Additionally, he has served as a trustee for the Washington State Children's Hospital for 35 years. He and his wife Elizabeth are generous patrons to the Modern Museum of Art in New York, the Seattle Children's Hospital and various Puritan churches nationwide.

Carlisle Cullen X has been on the "TIME 100" since 1983. In 1998, he was on the magazine's cover, having been named the World's Most Influential Man. Since becoming Secretary of State under President Huntington, his son, Jasper W. Cullen III has been ranked #28 for seven consecutive years.

He has been married to Elizabeth, Lady of Masen and Duchess of Haleshire since 1969. He has three children: Jasper (b. 1971), Edward (b. 1978) and Rosalie (b. 1980), and two grandchildren.

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As of this book's release (2025), Jasper Whitlock Cullen IV is serving as the Secretary of State under President Huntington; Edward Anthony Cullen VI concluded his service as United States Ambassador to Venezuela in April and is now serving the Secretary of Defense in the Pentagon. Carlisle William Cullen X concluded his term as Governor of Washington State, and is retired from politics. The husband of Rosalie Cullen-McCarthy, Emmett McCarthy, has served as a House Representative and Senator for the State of Tennessee. His term as State Governor ended in 2020**. **

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**Explanations: ****I borrowed Jay Gatbsy from Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby_. Paseo de la Reforma is a lovely Avenue in Mexico City, where the Independence Angel is found. The title for an Austrian Princess is "Archduchess", although Austria no longer has royalty. Kensignton Gardens is a public park in London. The properties around are very expensive. Harvard Corporation is indeed the governing board of Harvard University. The titles of Lady of Masen and Duchess of Haleshire are made up, as is the title of Lady of Suffolk. Thanks for reading! **


	2. Chapter 1: Lauren

**A/N: Thanks for reading this! This story is a work of fiction, and although it uses some references to American History, is not meant to depict a real-life family or president. All original ideas belong to the author, although key parings follow Twilight Canon. The story will be primarily centered around Edward and Bella, although it will include a few chapters on Rosalie and Emmett, Jasper and Alice, and hints of Carlisle & Esme. With the exception of this chapter, most other chapters will follow a story format. Lauren publishes The Ides of March in 2025. I prefer not to try and guess what will happen in the next decade, so I try to say as little as possible about that. I have modified Bella's date of birth to make the story work better. Most other elements are canon.  
**

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**June 19****th****, 2025 **

**9:00 PM **

**Los Angeles, CA **

**Aired Live **

"Good evening. Tonight we have with us the author of the _Ides of March: On American Royalty _. An extensive excerpt of the book was released three weeks ago, and took America by storm. Since, she has been featured in Time Magazine and Newsweek. She has been hounded by paparazzi. Tonight, she gives her first official interview on the eve of the book's release. Please welcome, Lauren Mallory."

Lauren Mallory struts into the stage. Her cheeks look hollow, and her pale blue eyes, toad-like. There is a faintly orange tint to her skin, from a tanning bed accident no doubt. Her large breasts, disproportionate in her skeletal frame, are proudly displayed in a sleeveless turquoise dress with golden sequins at the hem. Her large lips are covered in a bright pink lip-gloss. To the unenthusiastic audience, she shows her horse-like denture. When she reaches the interviewer, she envelops him in a hug.

"As we speak," the interviewer begins somberly, "thousands upon thousands of people are lining up in bookstores – from Sacramento, to Seattle, from Florida, to Anne Arbor. People are literally camping outside Barnes and Noble. Did you ever expect this kind of reaction?"

"Not at all," Lauren says. "I mean, my publisher was all like, 'You know, we have a bomb in our hands', the first time he held the men-oo-script, but it didn't really hit me that I'd be this big. That I'd turn into a celebrity. I didn't think I'd become the next Kim Kardashian."

"And you have become a Kim Kardashian of sorts," the interviewer says. "You told us you've received death threats?"

"Oh yeah. Since the expert was leaked out to the press, I've received six death threats. Somebody broke into my apartment. Mostly NRA people, and Republicans. 'Cause you know. Cullens are traditionally Republicans."

"This book contains some truly explosive accusations. Are you willing to look Americans in the eye and say that every single one of your declarations is true?"

"I worked for the Cullens for 25 years. If anybody knows the dirt on that family, it's me."

"Can you elaborate?"

"On what?"

"On your employment with the Cullens?"

"I started out working as a sous-chef in their Mansion in Washington State. My mother, Patricia Mallory, knows Mrs. Cullen very well, and so I got the ticket. I was 18. Edward was 22. After Edward graduated from Harvard I became his Personal Secretary – so I worked on arranging his appointments and stuff."

"Has any member of the Cullen family contacted you directly?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Have you tried to contact any of them?"

"Beth – that's Edward's kid from Bella Swan – lives with her Mom and Laurent Dupont-Bose - a black Columbia professor, in the Village. I would've talked to her but she spends this month with her Dad in the Hamptons."

"Were you close to Beth, while you were working with the Cullens?"

"Well, erm – eh, not really. I was like, really close to, like, EJ – that's her brother, from Edward's relationship with Renata Lombardi. But I gotta say, I was closest to Edward himself. I was his _fuck buddy _for twenty years. I mean, the first week I spent in the mansion he fucked me in the boathouse, and in the garage, and in his bathtub. And he fucked me at least twice a month every year since. Oh, yeah. I hadn't been there six days when he fucked me in the boathouse. And he's fucked me at least twice a month every year after that. He's an amazing fuck, but a dick to women."

"In this book, you accuse of Edward Cullen of harassing you sexually a number of times. Are you now saying you've changed your mind?"

" I mean, he manipulated me into bed. But at least for the first couple of years, I thought we were in love. And so we made love a lot. He was always like, 'Lauren, you know I don't want a relationship with you.' And he went with me to doctors appointments to get the shot and stuff. At one point, he even asked me if I wanted my own apartment in Chicago. But I chose to stay with him."

"Would you call yourself his mistress?"

"Like I said, Charlie. He always _said _that he didn't want a relationship, and that, and I quote, 'Lauren, this is just sex between two consenting adults, and if you have any problem with that, then don't sleep with me.' But he manipulated me into bed with him."

"Did he sleep with you while he was married to Tanya Aleksandrov?"

"Well, sometimes. When he's pissed at her, or pining over Bella Swan. It's not regular. But in between relationships, he fucks me like a sailor on lease."

"On leave, you mean," the interviewer says.

"Unleashed, yeah," Lauren says.

"In the book, you say that the first few years of this … relationship left you deeply scarred. Is there any particular reason for this?"

"He always made me feel inadequate. Especially when he stopped sleeping with me because he was in love with Isabella Swan. That's why I felt like I had to get my boobs done, and my lips done. Although, to be honest, I've never felt sexier than now. Edward's an ass to women," Lauren says. See, the thing with Edward is that he would fuck everything with a cunt when he was sixteen, seventeen – you know. And then Bella Swan started working in the Mansion the summer he came back from Harvard, and then he was all about fucking Bella Swan. He fucked me more than ever that summer because he was horny and wanted to sleep with Bella Swan. And they were on-and-off for ten years until he finally married Tanya, and in those off periods - well, I messed over my pussy for that bastard."

"When you say Bella Swan, are you referring the prodigy, Isabella Swan?"

"Bitch, please, don't call her that," Lauren says. The interviewer looks briefly offended, and then recovers. "She's a whore. And she married a nigger. I mean, who does that? She was married to a_ Cullen. _And she had his balls in her pocket. Edward was completely besotted. I think he still is. You can tell. He's still a fantastic fuck, but there's a huge difference between pre-Swan sex and post-Swan sex. And he pretends he doesn't give a shit about her but every time Beth even mentions her he starts acting like he has Down Syndrome."

"For those in the audience member that don't know, Isabella Swan is a world-famous cellist and artist. We featured her in a 30-minute interview called 'The Girl that Sees Sound'. She played the violin for the London Philharmonic Orchestra for 10 years and her magnum opus of 100 paintings has been featured in a number of museums. Absolutely fantastic work. She played Bach's Cello Suite #1 for us. Miss Mallory, do you know if Beth has synesthesia, as well?"

"Oh, you mean the seeing sounds thing? Or whatever? Yeah, I think she does. Only Swan had more than one type, I think, and Beth only has the hearing color thingy."

"Is she pursuing an arts career, as well?"

"That Swan whore has no career. She may as well be a wetback, the amount of education she has. She actually only managed to get a job with the Cullens because Carlisle took pity on her. So she became EJ's nanny – that's Edward's kid with Renata Lombardi. She and EJ just clicked, I guess. He still calls her a lot, a lot. And he sends her mother's day gifts and stuff. And I guess Edward found that cute or something, and so they fell in love."

"But they divorced?"

"Oh, yeah. It's funny, 'cause Bella was knocked up _after _they divorced. They were on-and-off for like, ten years. Edward still can't talk to her, but in that whore's defense, Edward was the one that got married to Tanya first. She went stable with a Columbia professor. A darkie Columbia professor - Laurent Dupont-Böse. Actually, it makes Edward shit bricks that his daughter's living in a remodeled firehouse with her mother's _partner. _If I were Edward, I'd be more upset at the fact that's he's half-African and stuff. I mean, there is nothing more American than a Cullen, and there she is, in the Village, being raised by a half-French, half-Sengulese darkie."

Taken aback, the interviewer quickly recovers. "As we have already discussed, your relationship with Senator Edward Cullen left you deeply you think the book is a vendetta of sorts?"

For the first time, she hesitates before answering. "Like, I have, like, nothing against the Cullens. Like, nothing. Only against Edward. Because he fucked me without caring about, like, my, like, feelings and stuff."

Lauren hesitates. She sinks deeper into the chair, legs spread open.

"To help our more confused audience members," the interviewer says regally, trying to salvage the situation, "Would you care to tell us a bit more about the family? What is the first thing you discovered?"

"The most obvious thing is that Rosalie was – is – a cripple."

There is a collective gasp that seems almost fabricated by the producers. Lauren's bee-stung, disproportionately large lips twist into a smile of satisfaction.

"Rosalie can't walk," she says delightfully, evilly. "They've kept it secret from almost everybody except the Denali family – oh, and Tea Party hotshots and shit. But that's how the Cullens do it – you know, when a retard, or a spazz, or a cripple is born into the family, they lock them up in facilities and shit."

"Was Rosalie Cullen kept in such a facility?"

"Eer – well, she was homeschooled. She went to a religious boarding school in the UK for her freshman year of High School, and then did it normally in a different prep-school."

"Then what do you mean - they kept it secret from the public?"

"Well, see - if you're anybody important in this country, you know that Rosalie Cullen is a spazz, and in Washington State it's kind of public knowledge. Carlisle's paid a whole bunch of papers in Washington State to not say anything 'bout it, though. She doesn't go out much."

"And what exactly is Rosalie's – ailment?"

"It's this thing called Spine Buff-ida."

"And does that cause any damage that would justify Rosalie being hidden from the public?"

"Well, see, people that have that Spine thingy _can _have learning and socializing, like, issues. But Rosalie isn't stupid. She's kind of smart, actually. She has a degree from UDub. From what I know, though, her parents wanted her to take an online course. And she's She's fucking pretty. Like, really, really pretty. Could be a model. But Elizabeth really fucked her over so she has these nervous breakdowns and shit."

"Just so we're clear, Lauren. Would you say that Rosalie's condition being hidden from the public exceeded the Cullens right to privacy? "

Lauren becomes evidently nervous. "It's all in the book. I personally don't get it."

"But would you - can you look at America in the eye - and say, Rosalie Cullen was purposefully hidden from the public eye on account of her disability?"

"I mean, it was all Elizabeth Cullen. But then Carlisle started to go on and on about how it was a hazzle to Rosalie's safety if you know - some kidnapper or some psycho or something - knew that Rosalie couldn't run. I mean, they are the _Cullens_ after all."

"Are you then conclusively saying that the condition was kept from the public for safety reasons?"

"As I said," she says. "It's all in the book."

The interviewer takes out a different note card. "You say in the book that the only secret that you felt guilty revealing was Jasper's. Would you like to tell America - live - what that secret is?"

"See, when I moved in the big fat drama was that Edward got Renata Lombardi pregnant on a trip to Italy with his frat boys. They didn't talk much about Jasper until much after. And Jasper had been married since he was 29 to this beaner."

"You're calling Maria Velasquez de Alba a beaner." The interviewer is shocked past asking questions.

"Yeah. Who cares if she's this rich-ass Mexican chic – like rich, rich, rich, rich, and from this old colonial family and shit. Her family owns all the resorts in Mexico's west coasts and a big-ass mining company were they exploit the redskins. But the marriage sucked balls. Jasper hated her guts. I think he still hates her. That's why he had that love affair with the Alice girl. The Alice thing was fucking sad. I don't want to tell it now."

"I would say that a lot of it is quite sad."

"Another startling accusation that you make in this book is that Cullen's –Carlisle Cullen, and I should really say_ the tenth_ because there have been so many Carlisle Cullens in American history – you say that his children aren't really all from the same mother. Can you elaborate on that?"

"Oh, yeah. And I go into detail about this in Part I – y'all can skip through it 'cause personally I find it kind of boring. They go on and on about how Carlisle's forefathers were America's founding fathers and blah blah blah – but yeah. So Carlisle's parents died in an airplane crash and he moved in with his uncle William who's like this, uptight reverend dude. So they moved to this teensy tiny town where William preached and – long story short, he was really good friends with this girl called Esme Platt. That's Edward's mother."

"And Lady Elizabeth Masen, where does she come in?"

"Oh, so – yeah. Elizabeth. Carlisle was forced by his uncle or cousin, I don't remember which John Jacob Cullen – JJC, you know, the Cold War president and shit – to go into Harvard to study. Law, I think, after he graduated . I don't wanna say, though. It's like, going to, like, ruin the book. It's the unhappiest marriage in the history of bad marriages. I don't blame him, though. That woman is like Hitler."

"But Edward is older than Rosalie," the interviewer urges her on. "Did Carlisle have a child with this lady and then another child with Elizabeth Masen?"

"Well, yeah. See, Elizabeth got pregnant with Jasper – which is like, a big fat miracle, because there's the Cullen Curse, and stuff. And then when Jasper was five, Carlisle became a Senator, were Esme Platt had just moved 'cause her old husband used to beat the crap out of her. He hired her as his secretary 'cause she had this baby. But it died. And then they became lovers."

The interviewer tries to hide her horror.

"And then Elizabeth Masen found out. They kind of had to tell her because Esme had Edward and stuff. Well – it gets fishy there. I don't know what happened. Rosalie's nanny, Carmen, says that she thinks Elizabeth purposefully made Rosalie crippled so that Carlisle would stay with her, but I don't believe that part. They made me explore a whole bunch of possibilities in that part."

The Interviewer is now torn between profound amusement at her stupidity and embarrassment. He changes the subject.

"Your very first sentence – in the entire book, is: _Cullen hegemony is so deeply-rooted and so entrenched in American life that no revelation of mine is going to destroy it. _If you believe that, then why publish their secrets?_" _

"Yeah, I had to look hargemony up in the dictionary before I wrote that," Lauren chuckles.

"Is this book a form of revenge against the Cullen family?"

"See, the thing is, when a Cullen chooses to run for office, they make it. And they have all the politicians in their pocket, because they're like this huge deal. And they're stockholders everywhere. That little Beth bitch has more money than Paris Hilton _and _Kim Kardashian. They own something like 10% of Shell, of Coke, of that big-ass company that owns Pizza Hut, in BP oil, and in all of these other small companies in the US. They have their own office at Wall Street. And they have like, all these connections to royal people. They have eight houses, like, legit historical houses – one in the Hamptons, in Rhode Island, in New Hampshire, in Georgia, in Virginia, in New Mexico, in Washington State and in front of the Great Lakes…"

"And this upsets you? Did they acquire this money illicitly – I mean, illegally?"

"Why would they? I mean, most of the shit they own is inherited and they have this big hotshot lawyer, called Liam O'Malley to make sure that they don't steal stuff that belongs to the state versus what belongs to _them. _And you know, most of their properties have been inherited. Even the ranches in Texas and California and the stuff abroad."

"Then why expose them so?"

Lauren looks confused. "I didn't catch that."

"Yes, well, you wrote here, "_And yet there is something tremendously life-affirming about knowing that they have paid dearly for all their prestige, power and luxuries. Those of us enraged about their illicitly acquired power may find solace in the fact that the Cullen curse exists, and that their suffering is perennial." _

"Oh, yeah. They explained that to me. There's like, these recurring themes in their lives. Like, every generation, there's only one person that can conceive kids – or has them grow into adults. Like, Rosalie. Rosalie couldn't pop out kids, and neither could Jasper. Although that wasn't really 'cause he's sterile or anything. His balls aren't defective, like Rosalie's uterus. And you'd think that it wouldn't happen – but it does – that every thirty years or so, there's two wheelchairs at the dinner table."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's all in the book, Charlie," she says. "But I will say that there's this huge issue with drugs. That happens every generation, too, you know. Jasper came back from the gulf war completely cooko, and EJ. There's the pothead – you know, the one that became president but that was because he fought in Korea and stuff. The other cousin was crippled, too, but then he shot himself. He lost both of his legs. I call him Uncle Gimp in my head."

"You mean President William John Cullen's brother?"

"That'd be the one."

"You're calling a United States President a pothead? And his defunct brother a gimp?"

"Yeah, well, all the Vietnam vets are. But that's not, like, the point. I was telling you. EJ came back fucked from _his _military service. I think they're still dealing with that."

"And you find this life-affirming?"

"Whatever that means. Yeah."

"Well, Lauren. I am sure, that America's heart goes out to the Cullens in this time of need. This concludes our interview with the author of **The Ides of March, **Lauren Mallory. Lauren, thanks for joining us tonight."

"Love you, America!" Lauren says. "Oh, and don't forget – there's dirt about Beth, too."

"Thank you, Lauren."

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**June 16****th****, 2025 **

**12:00 PM **

**The Hamptons, New York**

**Tweeted by Carlisle Cullen X, former governor of Washington State **

_From the Office of Carlisle Cullen X_

_Miss Lauren Mallory was employed by the office of Ambassador Edward Anthony Cullen for twenty-five years, after being employed by the Cullen family in their Washington State home. She chose to retire – in what we believed was amicable terms - three months ago. Miss Mallory is being granted all the privileges and protections that she is legally entitled to as a former employee. _

_We hope that the interview that aired tonight will help Americans come to the realization that Miss Mallory most likely lent her name to give this malicious publication some credibility. The matter is being investigated by a team of litigators. _

_Our heart goes out to all those that may have been offended by the unfortunate language used by Miss Mallory to warp our family history. _

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**Author's Note: **

**This chapter has been edited and is different - if slightly - from what was originally published. To those reviewers that may be offended by the many insulting words Lauren used - it was meant to illustrate her stupidity. As a reviewer kindly pointed out, Böse is German for mad. The Ides of March is the date in which Julius Caesar was betrayed and assassinated. Thanks for reading and please, review. **

**- Balooney **


	3. Chapter 2: Rosalie

**None of the comments made by any of the characters are meant to be a criticism of anybody's political views or behaviors. Rosalie's cynicism and mocking of Edward's views are a character trait, as are everyone else's. They do not reflect the author's views of the world.**

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**December 1998 **

**Washington State **

**Cullen Mansion, **

**Forks, WA **

Edward had come back for Christmas break from the University of Chicago.

And in so doing, he had thwarted everybody's expectations by acting like an absolute _moron. _

He had only home three days, and yet he was starting to annoy the fuck out of Rosalie. At dinnertime, he even dethroned Maria, whose every comment made Rosalie's blood boil.

With dark brown, bright green eyes and a complexion that was only darker than Rosalie's because Rosalie had rarely spent time in the sun, Maria was stunning. She was intelligent, well-informed, and politically savvy. She and Jasper had met while Jasper worked as military attaché (the family's euphemism for CIA) at the Embassy in Mexico. The courtship had been short, and had culminated in the devoutly Catholic Maria converting to marry Jasper in a lavish ceremony with 823 guests.

It had been a short courtship because Maria's father, Mr. Velasquez and Elizabeth, Rosalie's mother, had orchestrated everything – from the first to the last date, when Jasper got down on one knee.

From the moment she had met her, Rosalie had known Maria was a bitch. It was, however, difficult to tell exactly what it was that made her deserve the adjective. Rosalie had to give it to her – she was a genius. Maria knew how to be sweet without appearing artificial. She was smart, witty and emanated a grace that few other girls did. She knew how to publicly act like an affectionate wife without being vulgar or appearing like she was trying too hard.

And without any tangible proof that it was Maria's fault Jasper was miserable, Rosalie had given up on fighting her mother, Elizabeth.

And now that she had a boyfriend (or suitor, because Royce hadn't asked yet) of her own, she knew Elizabeth was a good-matchmaker. Rosalie had no proof that Elizabeth had orchestrated events such that she would meet Royce King, but she had.

Her mother did not meddle in the relationship; she hadn't indicated she approved of Royce, even though she evidently did. But there was some primal instinct in Rosalie that screamed that her mother was responsible for the relationship's existence.

Edward had been subject to similar matchmaking machinations since the age of 18. No suitable match had arisen; her brother had not had a girlfriend _yet. _Rosalie was sure that it had more to do with the boy's personality than with Elizabeth's ability to find him a suitable girl.

Edward was 21 and still looked 15. He was slightly taller than Jasper, but gangly, skinny and awkward – still disproportionate for a boy his age. Rosalie was a good judge of beauty and knew her brother was handsome. But there was something about his eyes – bright, emerald green – that appeared naively boyish and innocent. It made dating him unappealing, Rosalie assumed.

And his personality was so irritatingly idealistic – and often immature. He was still so _green _that she supposed it offset everything a match with Edward had to offer – power, money and pedigree.

From a very young age, Edward had devoted all of his energy to proving that he wanted to go against the grain. Her brother, the middle child, had been more difficult than Jasper and Rosalie combined. From the moment they were young children, Edward had behaved like a goat, butting against everything the family held dear. When Elizabeth began asking that her children present themselves to dinner wearing relatively fancy attire, Edward rebelled against the nannies by dipping all of his oxford shirts and nice polo shirts in paint. To quash the rebellion, Elizabeth began making him wear a tie. She would personally tie it so tightly around his neck it was miraculous he could breathe.

He refused to take music lessons even though he enjoyed playing piano, if only because both of their parents had insisted. When he was fourteen, Elizabeth offered that he take cello lessons. To counter them, he spent months on end playing _Super Freak _while he showered as a form of rebellion. They only stopped forcing him because their elderly Uncle William almost keeled over and died when Edward explained the sinful nature of the lyrics.

His middle school education was tumultuous because he was expelled from institution after institution. His various transgressions were to blame, and including everything – from inflating condoms and filling them with confetti _inside _the Religious Ed classroom; to smoking weed during lunch break outside the school gates.

Thinking the boy's uncouthness would be corrected by a British education, he was sent to Eton when Carlisle was Secretary for President Garret. To Rosalie's knowledge, he spent them all beating up his classmates – or getting beat up -, blowing up plumbing, detaching toilet seats from toilets and using them for pranks, and pissing off the faculty.

He was straightened out (or so the poor bastards had thought) when they sent him to West Point's Prep School at the age of seventeen. Carlisle had been forced to _make a phone call. _He had made another one of those _phone calls _a year later. He requested that the Admissions Offices at Chicago University they ignore Edward's poor disciplinary record. He begged that they focus on the fact that the boy made straight As when he wasn't channeling his energies otherwise.

And so Elizabeth and Carlisle Cullen had breathed a sigh of relief - if brief.

Edward came back from his first semester in '96 with a _ponytail. _Carlisle found out he ditched Macro 101 for German Literature, Political Theory for Classics, and Microeconomics for Arabic for beginners. His suitcase was filled with ridiculous books like the _Sorrows of Werther_ and _a Thousand and One Nights. _ The summer before his second year of college he spent in China, teaching English to kids in Tianjin City. He spent another month in Mongolia, living with a nomadic family in Ulan Bator.

Carlisle proved much smarter than Edward gave him credit for, though. He agreed to let Edward spend a semester in Mumbai, if and only if, he studied Economics and declared that to be his major. They expected to be the winter of '97 his last show before it all came out of his system. Thus, they took his yoga sessions at the ass-crack of dawn, and his vegan diet requests in stride.

On a very secret level, Rosalie found it all kind of cool.

As Carlisle had requested, all of his classes that semester were leading towards a degree in Economics. The degree was coming along smoothly, but her brother's behavior remained as odd and quirky as ever. In fact, they had even funded his trip to Latin America that year, in the hopes that he would spend his vacation at resorts and visiting pyramids.

_Oh, how her parents had been wrong._

That evening, he joined them for dinner in a black-and-white shirt depicting _el Che _and a pair of ripped jeans. His dark, red hair stuck up in all directions – although Rose was inclined to think that was not a product of his effort to make him so. When Edward was little, Elizabeth had roused him at 6:30 to put half a bottle of gel on his hair. It always came back sticking up everywhere at the end of the day.

And so, from the moment he sat down, he had yapped on and on about how he was apolitical and believed in equality and Marx was right, and blah blah blah…

So, breaking Elizabeth's rules for dining, Edward had sat next to Carlisle for a change, across from Jasper. Elizabeth usually sat there, but they had decided it was better for Elizabeth's mental sanity that Edward didn't argue from across her.

It had enraged their decrepit Uncle William. He found it preposterous that Carlisle's wife didn't sit to his right, as was customary. Then again, the Reverend found short sleeves preposterous, too. Luckily for everybody else, he had a cataract in his left eye and couldn't see the "third world communist demon" on Edward's shirt. He refused to have them removed because it was "the will of the Lord." (Rosalie had been subject to so many lectures on how her spine problem was "the will of the Lord" that she had actually started to believe it).

Reverend William had been born in 1910. He was 89 years old and crippled like Rose herself.

As a little girl, it had embarrassed her to no end that a man 60 years older than herself used a wheelchair, too. It made her think they would associate her to an old lady.

Sometimes, she still felt like that.

Uncle William was still surprisingly lucid. Newcomers to the small town of Forks, where he had preached for a number of years, believed he wasn't. Thus, they took it in stride when, as he was being walked down Main Street by his nurse, he cried out bible verses and insults. He called women wearing skirts – of any length – whores; he also called women wearing pants _and _boys with tight trousers _homosexuals, _and would cry out bible verses on the matter. He called teenagers walking down the street and holding hands fornicators. The list was endless.

Carlisle assured them that this was no different from his Uncle's behavior when Carlisle was growing up.

William was still huffing where he sat, in his wheelchair, across from Carlisle. Something else had caught his attention and he was staring off into space.

Edward had developed his ability to irritate them with his speeches on social equality that he had managed to irritate _William_ out of rebutting all of his statements. And so William, irritable as ever, and knowing himself weak, did not fight Edward when he went off on a tirade.

Her brother was an evil genius. Rosalie would have been impressed if she weren't so damn _annoyed. _

"If I wanted a lobbyist for apolitical liberal causes in my own dinner table," Carlisle had finally snapped, "I would have invited one to dine with us."

They hadn't even finished the appetizers yet.

"Edward, darling, please, desist from this arguing. It's so unpleasant. Is that what they are teaching you at school, love?"

"No, they are teaching me to see social realities, Mother_," _Edward said heatedly.

Jasper snorted into his wine. As was typical of Jasper, he never laughed. His lips only twisted upwards in cold, almost shrewd amusement. Maria was biting back a smile and was instead focusing on chewing her miniature bite of the appetizer.

There was a blessed moment of silence. Edward no doubt believed he was letting his heroic message sink in. Instead, they clung to the hope that he'd shut up. Like would during his Emo-depressive puberty.

But he didn't.

"I'm seeing poor families – from minorities, usually – because we favor whites in this country, struggling to pay taxes because only the rich get tax breaks."

Carlisle looked up at the roof as if praying for patience.

"As I have already said, son," Carlisle said through gritted teeth, "I believe in proportional taxation. It may be ill-advised for me to quote Marx when you seem hell-bent on joining General Castro in the Cuban islands – "

Jasper almost laughed. Rosalie and Maria did.

"But 'From _each according to his ability_, to each according to his need.' Equality, my boy, is taxing everybody 20% at a flat rate. Now, Edward, you are in the best Economics program in the nation. The only competition is LSE, and that is an extraordinary institution. So, tell me, son: what do economists say about _higher _marginal tax rates?"

Rosalie had only one semester of Economics, and at UDub, and she could answer that one.

Edward was left speechless. He opened his mouth to say, "But that's based on the premise that – "

Carlisle held up his hand to silence him. "Answer the question."

Edward continued speaking " – on the premise that the - "

Carlisle held up his hand again, pressing his palm against his forehead.

"Rose, love, would _you _like to answer the question?"

Rosalie smiled snidely at her brother. "A higher marginal tax rate discourages people to work," Rosalie said, "which then has a negative impact on production."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

Edward shot Rosalie a dirty look. Rosalie was inclined to give him the finger. The two siblings glared at each other, enabling Carlisle to steer the conversation from politics.

"Darling, what is this delicious _hors d'oeuvre _we are having?" Carlisle asked Elizabeth.

Elizabeth Cullen was as regal as ever in a dark blue silk blouse. Her black her was in a sleek bun a top her head. The one lone black hair out of place was only evident because there were no other hairs beside it. From her, Rosalie had inherited a pair of beautiful violet-tinted eyes that made Elizabeth resemble Elizabeth Taylor.

"It's a potato pancake with smoked salmon and curd cheese with chives," Elizabeth informed him.

She turned to Rosalie. "I asked the new girl to put cottage cheese on yours, Rosalie, so the taste may be ever so slightly different."

Edward laughed snidely. "Mother, you've _ruined _Rosalie's evening," he said.

Elizabeth ignored him.

"The new girl – Lauren - seems to intent on cooking wishy-washy things like _sushi,_" she spat out the last word as if it was a mortal insult. "I had to hire her because her mother, Patricia, is the best manicurist in a 10-mile radius."

"I had such a hard time finding a good manicurist in Beirut," Maria said in that congenial-yet-not-artificial voice Rosalie so despised. She placed her perfectly manicured one on Jaspers. His tightened, but she ignored it and instead traced circles on his knuckles.

At that moment, Lauren came in caring a silver tray, only to hear the compliment. Unaware of the previous statement, she served them all with a toady, sycophantic smile.

She bent down to serve Carlisle his soup. As she did, Edward's hand slipped up her jeans and squeezed her left butt-cheek.

She jumped a little; Carlisle turned towards her; Edward dropped his hand.

Only she, Jasper, and Maria, saw it.

"What's the matter?" Carlisle says, evidently tired.

"Nephew!" Uncle William thundered in his coarse, sanctimonious voice. – as if he were preaching. All three males - Jasper, Edward and Carlisle - jumped in their seats. Edward turned scarlet and started coughing out apologies.

"Let us say grace!"

And so Carlisle began to say grace before the matter of Edward squeezing the girl's butt could be investigated further.

* * *

As it often happened to her, Rosalie couldn't sleep that night.

She called Carmen – her lifelong nanny – on a baby monitor that her mother insisted she keep on her bedside table. She was nineteen years old. However, as per Elizabeth's instructions, she wasn't allowed to transfer from her chair to another position without adult supervision.

In many of his teenaged, angst-filled tirades against their mother, Edward had said that Elizabeth was a manipulative bitch. As such, Edward declared, Elizabeth was keeping Rosalie trapped. Like she kept everyone trapped, Edward had hollered.

Rosalie had stupidly joined him in some fights – and ended up with a bruised tailbone. Elizabeth had snapped and told Rosalie – fine. Go ahead. Get on the bed by yourself.

And so, as she had for nineteen years, Carmen helped her out of her bed and unto her chair. She rolled her over to the window seat, and then helped (half-dragged, half-carried) her onto it.

About thirty minutes before she fell asleep – at 1:30 AM – she saw Edward and the new girl running out of the kitchen's backdoor. Edward held what looked like a bra in his hand. Neither of them wore coats, and her brother was in fact displaying his skinny chest. They walked under the snow and into the boathouse.

"Idiots," Rosalie muttered.

* * *

The next morning, Rosalie went in for breakfast at 8:00, fully-dressed. Elizabeth had never let them go into the kitchen in their pajamas. In fact, they weren't allowed to go downstairs in them. She wore a pink pantsuit and had her straightened blonde hair in a ponytail because she had therapy at 11:00.

She heard Jasper and Edward bickering from the second she came out of the mansion's only elevator. Fascinated, she decided to wait in the corridor. Her brothers' conversations always fascinated her. Jasper was so different when talking to Edward, and it so happened, Edward was, too.

"You think you're so s_lick, _fucking the help in the boathouse," Jasper was scolding Edward, a hint of condescension in his harsh voice. "Well, let me tell you what, little bro'. I was fucking girls in that boathouse when you were falling asleep to _Power Rangers. _So next time, take in your cellphone and don't sleep there with the girl. Set the alarm. Sneak back in at 5:30. Don't wait for me to drag your ass out at 7:30. Dad would've walked in on you."

"Geez, Jasper, calm down," Edward said in a high-pitched voice. For some strange reason, when Jasper was scolding him, he sounded like an insecure thirteen-year-old. And he looked so _boyish _next to Jasper, too.

"And I wasn't fucking her," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, Edward, please," Jasper said. He stabbed his French toast quite forcefully. "Don't feed me that line."

"I actually – erm," Edward said in soft, squeaky voice. "I actually haven't – I actually haven't done it with anyone."

"In Chicago?"

Edward coughed and spat out a word that sounded like w_ebber. _

"_Never?_" Jasper snorts. He lets out a cold, hard, mocking laugh that sends chills up and down Rosalie's spine. "How the _fuck _did you get into the Greek system?"

"Unlike you," Edward said, in a poor attempt to sound snide and defensive, "I actually _had _fun in my teens. You know, I have talents. Like drinking ten tequila shots without holding the glass, with a lime on each eye and standing on my tiptoes. Or like eating a hundred peeps in one seating."

Jasper laughed – a harsh, manly laugh that made Rosalie dislike him.

"All I remember from your teen years are renditions of _Wonderwall_, hissy fits and hearing you wank it off - "

"And as lovely as all that is," Rosalie finally said, a little traumatized at the conversation of her brother's teenage masturbation habits. "I'd love to not puke up my breakfast."

Edward straightened up instead of hunching and Jasper's mocking, amused face changed. Rosalie rolled into her normal spot, cleared for her chair, in the kitchen table.

They quieted down but continued to glare at each other.

She took a banana and started to peel it. A few moments later, Uncle William's new nurse came out of the kitchen carrying his breakfast. He had circles under his eyes and looked slightly deranged. He ignored their greetings. Rosalie was initially upset, but then realized the man was probably starting to lose his marbles.

"How long do you think that one's going to last?" Edward asked, laughing.

"I don't know. This one seems to be a trooper. I know Daddy says he's lucid and everything, but you know how he wouldn't let nurses help him shower because it was ungodly? He's not letting this man shower him because he says it's homosexual sodomy."

All three of them laugh.

"Really, though. Poor guy," Edward said.

"They're running out of options," Rosalie told them matter-of-factly. "This guy only agreed to do it because they raised the salary by about a thousand bucks a month. And the older he gets, the less the nurses last."

"It's not like they get paid much, anyway," Edward lamented sadly.

She finished her banana and then started to poke at the French toast on her plate.

"Where's everyone else?"

"Dad is campaigning in Olympia this evening, so he and mother took off rather early. Maria is out. I think she went out to jog in the old Woodpecker's trail," Jasper said. "By the way, love, I'm driving you to therapy today. Works out just as well. I have business to sort out in Seattle. We can go to that restaurant you like. That diner."

Rosalie blushed.

The matter of therapy embarrassed her, for some reason.


	4. Chapter 3: Rosalie

**Meet Emmett. And young Alice Brandon - who will not reappear for a long, long time. **

* * *

**December 1998**

**George Washington Orthopedic Institute **

**Seattle, WA **

She and Jasper drove listening to _Beatles' _CDs as they had since Rosalie was little, letting their British accents pepper their speech, and making fun of Edward.

"I'm definitely sure that girl – Laura, is that her name? – came on to him first," Jasper chuckled. "Eddie boy wouldn't be able to grab a woman's ass like that unless she made it evidently clear she was interested."

Then he added roughly, "Not that a man should ever, ever grab a woman's arse – or – erm, _breasts." _

She blushed.

Later, as if to remind himself of her innocence, he bought her a Mars Bars when they stopped for gas. She only ate it because he got mad when she refused it.

"Rose, even if you were obese," he said testily, "you'd still be the prettiest girl in the universe. And I'm not biased."

"No, you're not biased," she answered sarcastically, if good-naturedly.

"In any case, if I weren't your brother, I'd be madly in love with you," he teased, flashing her one of those rare, Pre-Gulf War smiles. "And it would have nothing to do with your brains or your personality."

Laughing, she took a bite of the contraband. Then she stowed it in his glove compartment.

* * *

They reached the hospital thirty minutes later. He parked his rented Mercedes-Benz as close to the hospital as possible. He opened the chair up with ease – it took Edward at least ten minutes to unfold it – and lifted her into it with grace. Edward would just drag her into it like a caveman.

Even though it was an orthopedic hospital, people stared. They always did. Jasper used to joke that it was because she was unbelievably beautiful. Awkward Edward, being incapable of delivering a compliment without blushing or stammering, said it was because people were 'gold-digging fucks' that only cared about Carlisle being a politician. Neither of them had the guts to say it had anything to do with her being in a wheelchair.

However, with Carlisle a mere weeks from becoming governor of the State of Washington, Edward's theory had become plausible. She didn't discard Jasper's theory, either. Rosalie knew she was pretty. She'd heard too many wishy-washy, weak idiots say things like, _such a pretty girl, pity she can't walk. _

In spite of that, Rosalie had learned to acknowledge she was _beautiful. _She was beautiful, she was rich, and she was powerful if by extension. And she acted with the grace and snootiness that entitled her to wherever she went.

Part of that, she had learned, meant isolating herself from things she did awkwardly, or where she knew she'd look _pitiful_. Cullens didn't look stupid. Cullens were innately capable of acting with dignified and graceful. The gene seemed to have skipped Edward, though.

Jasper had it in spades. Jasper had a presence that absolutely _demanded _respect, and she felt safe with her brother. People cleared the elevator spaces, nodded at him and shivered when he nodded back coldly. When she went out with Jasper, she knew that the space that they gave her, and the looks, were as directed as Jasper as they were to the chair. And it wasn't that Edward was ugly – Edward was as good-looking as the two blondes – but he was awkward, and boyishly sweet and uncouth. Edward shuffled his feet, and kept his hands in his pocket, and his head bowed down.

Jasper took charge of things, walked decisively and with his chin titled upwards; he left it clear, with body language alone, that everybody there present was lucky to be in his presence. Knowing this as surely as she knew her name was Rosalie Lillian, she felt a smile on her face.

The smile of peevish satisfaction, of entitlement, only widened when the elevator opened to reveal Floor 12.

Floor 12 was reserved for chronic cases, for neurological cases. Many of the girls and boys, her age, in wheelchairs, in crutches. She knew some of them had unsightly, waddle-like gaits. Seeing them limp about clumsily made her thankful.

She preferred not walking at all to looking like a legitimate spazz.

She was rolled past all of the other unfortunate girls with love handles, and pimples, and plain faces. Not all of them were _ugly, _of course. It was just that their faces were a combination of ugly features, redeemed by the one pretty thing. Most of them stared at the pair of regal blondes, gaping.

Rosalie knew herself to be flawless. The world was filled with unsavory blondes; her hair was golden, and her eyes, like violets. There was not a feature in her face that would indicate, to quote her Uncle William, that she wasn't "handmade by the Lord."

She felt like a Princess, being pushed down the aisle by her brother, the Crown Prince. They walked past all of the awkward Dads, that in spite of being decades older than Jasper, seemed intimidated by him.

They reached her doctor, a portly man in his early sixties that had been dealing with her case for her entire life. As such, he was neither intimidated nor openly impressed by the Cullens.

"Dr. Burke, this is my brother, Jasper," Rosalie said snootily. They had reached the room where she usually had therapy sessions every three days. Like clockwork.

"I remember Jasper," he told her good-naturedly, unfazed by Rosalie's sense of entitlement. "How are you, son?"

Jasper gave him a rare, cordial – almost warm smile. He held out his hand, adorned by his wedding ring and a Harvard class ring. "Doctor, what a pleasure to see you again."

They engaged in casual political talk for what seemed like an eternity. Rosalie began to drum her perfectly manicured hand against her spaghetti-like leg, covered in soft pink corduroy. Tucked between her leg and the chair's wheel was a small clutch, containing a Blackberry and lip-gloss. She took the device out, and began randomly messaging people on BBM.

"Ah – here he is," Burke said happily. His enthusiasm annoyed Rosalie. She lifted her head from her Blackberry with practiced disinterest.

A tall, muscular man – inches taller than Jasper, and two heads taller than Burke – with dark brown curls and big, blue eyes came towards them. He wore dark blue scrubs that revealed large muscles and a chiseled stomach.

He struck her as one of those wishy-washy Christian types that spewed out bullshit like, "_Jesus gave you sick legs but compensated with beauty." _

"Rosalie, Jasper, this is Emmett McCarthy."

"Pleasure to meet y'all," Emmett said, good-natured, smiling. He had two dimples.

He spoke like a Christian-type, too. Except this time, having heard him speak, she realized he fell into a different category. He was the Barnie-on-Prozac type. The type that tended to say bullshit like, "_The cup is half-full y'all." _She'd had too many therapists like those.

He held out his hand to Jasper, unfazed by the fact that he was speaking to a Cullen.

_Probably unaware, _Rosalie thought.

As much as the family's fame tended to annoy her, it also irritated her when people didn't _know_. For her, there wasn't a better indicator of how well-educated people were than how quickly they recognized them for who they were. And she didn't want to be in the hands of somebody that was too stupid to even glance at the Seattle Times on his way to work.

Emmett held his hand out to Rosalie. Without dropping her blackberry, she held out her hand – knowing it was bloody rude. Emmett enveloped her hand in his warm one and shook it quite firmly. He dropped it, and then headed over to the PT Room. He held the door open for her.

"Shall we?"

He wasn't smiling stupidly like Rosalie expected him too. His voice sounded rather stern, actually. Like her father. Gentle, even good-natured, but _stern. _

Rosalie glanced at Jasper desperately, wishing to say, _Moron, you're supposed to ask them if they're qualified. _

"Where's Kathy?" Rosalie asked, the alarm more apparent in her voice than she liked. To amend the damage, she added in a sharper tone of voice, "What happened to her?"

To emphasize her point, Rosalie wrinkled her pert little nose at this Emmett character. Only Emmett could see the gesture.

He arched an eyebrow.

"I thought it would be a good idea for Emmett to treat you, dear," Dr. Burke said, trying to sound firm. Jasper, in a rare display of an evident lack of s_hrewdness, _didn't detect the undercurrent of nerves in Burke's voice.

"If the doctor says it's good for you," Jasper said, "It's good for you. Go."

She glowered at him. Edward, she was sure, would have put up more of a fight.

* * *

The moment they were inside, Emmett walked over to a large stereo. The sounds of _Come Together _began to play.

"Shouldn't you ask the patient what music they want to play?" she said testily.

"My turf, my rules," Emmett said.

She found that combination of severity and kindness in his voice unsettled her. It only grated further on her nerves, and she huffed.

"Why isn't Kathy here?" she asked again snappishly.

"As Dr. Burke said," he replied. "Kathy, he and I sat down. We decided I'd treat you."

Emmett remained either oblivious or immune to her nasty tone. He retrieved a low-height chair from the corner of the spacious gym-like room. He set it down beside her; she eyed it nastily, as if it were filthy.

"Now, Dr. Burke said that you don't know how to transfer from a chair to a bed or to a car. So that's what we'll be doing today."

Rosalie felt as if the blood was being drained from her face. Panic-stricken, she said in a high-pitched voice, "Doesn't my mother have to authorize this?"

"Are you underage?" Emmett asked, as if he already knew the answer.

"Well, no, but that's not the point!"

Emmett smiled at her gently. "There's no reason to be nervous, Rose."

"Rosalie," she corrected him cattily.

He shrugged.

"Shall we?"

Desperate, Rosalie looked for a different alternative.

"Kathy usually just does some exercises on the mattress," she informed him petulantly.

Emmett smiled like the cat that had just caught the canary.

"Kathy thinks it's a better idea for you to learn how to do this. Now, I need you to parallel park next to this chair – so to speak- and then we'll get started…"

By the time they finished, Rosalie had managed to transfer by herself three times. A little voice in her head told her that if she hadn't invested so much of her energy at bitching at Emmett, she would have gotten more done.

"You need to start exercising more. Ask your brother to go buy you some dumbbells – half a kilo each. They're little pink ones," he added, a teasing edge to his voice.

"Dumbbells are for men," she tried to yap at him. Her bitchy tone was fading as the endorphins surged. She was tired, and sweaty, and her hair was all over the place. It didn't bother her much. She actually felt _happy. _And satisfied.

"So were pants, like the pink ones you're wearing," he retorted. His voice was empty of malice. Again, it sounded like he was teasing her – and still sounded stern.

He crouched down so that he was behind her, his chest to the back of her chair.

Rosalie felt the hairs on her neck rise. He actually smelled quite nicely. He was expecting him to smell like a hotdog.

With surprising gentleness, he placed his forearm beneath hers. His fingers – twice the width of hers' but not necessarily fat – were below her fingers. Her digits were strikingly delicate in spite of nineteen years of pushing herself around with them. He pushed her forearm towards her shoulder.

His hand was warm without being sweaty.

"You need to do that," he instructed. "Do ten reps per series, 3 series, every day. Hold it as much as you can."

He slid his arm out from under hers.

"And ask him to buy you some wristbands. I wouldn't want anything happening to your wrists."

He turned off the Beatles' CD, now playing _All My Loving. _"Good job, Rosalie. I'll see you on – Thursday, is it?"

"Yeah," she said breathlessly, bringing her forearm to her shoulder.

"See you then, kid."

Only at being called "kid" did it strike her that she wasn't – he couldn't be that much older than she was.

She wasn't a _kid. _

* * *

After Jasper bought her the dumbbells – and the wristbands – without showing as much as an iota of concern, Rosalie finally snapped. The high from the exercise had started to fade the second she began to study the damage done by the exercise. Little beads of sweat had formed on her forehead, and had made those little hairs in her forehead curl and stick up. Her cheeks were a bright, unsightly pink.

"Aren't you worried that'll get hurt doing this?"

Jasper pinched her – sweaty – cheek very gently. "Look, love, the guy said that you ought to do it. And I trust him to be right. He's a professional, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't know," Rosalie muttered petulantly. "You didn't ask if he was qualified."

He shook his head indulgently and turned on the Mercedes.

She would've bitched on, but her mind was on something else. In all the years Jasper and Maria had been married, he had never seen him touch her cheek. In fact, all the displays of affection he showered Rosalie with – brotherly kisses on the forehead, pinches on the cheek, brotherly teasing – he had never displayed with Maria.

They reached the little 50s-themed dinner only a while later. Jasper parked right outside it – even though it wasn't allowed. He left the engine on to retrieve her chair. He unfolded it and carried her into it. While momentously in his arms, she felt a brief thrill at the knowledge that she understood the mechanics of doing it herself.

"I'll get you settled in and then look for another parking space," he told her.

The waitress that greeted them looked sick and overwhelmed. She was only a head taller than Rosalie, who was seating down. Even bearing her short height in mind, she looked like a rail, like her flesh was stretched too thin over her delicate-looking bones. Her eyes looked toad-like in her small face if only because she was so thin. There were dark circles around them.

The dinner was packed with people, but she managed to get them two seats without going through the awkwardness of suggesting a booth or a bench-top seat.

"Today's special is a cheeseburger with caramelized onions and provolone cheese," she said to them, handing them the menus. A strong Southern accent sweetened her words.

"Why don't you order something to drink while I go get the car," Jasper said. He headed out, thanking the waitress.

"I'll have lemonade, with _four_ freshly squeezed yellow lemons, and artificial sweetener and one ice cube," she instructed. "If you don't have yellow lemons, I'll have an Italian soda with cherry syrup and two spoons of cream. One ice-cube only."

"Um," she said, mouth slightly ajar, "OK."

While the waitress was getting her drink – probably incorrectly – Jasper came back in.

"Momma, look, than man's hair looks like a lion's!"

Jasper stopped in his tracks, laughter bubbling on his lips, and spun around. A little girl, with short black hair that pointed in all directions, was standing next to the ba top. She looked to be about six and only slightly taller than his knee. She looked like a porcelain doll, with delicate features and puckering lips.

The small waitress, carrying an Italian soda, hissed, "Alice Brandon! How many times have I told ya to _not _point at costumers?"

Jasper laughed. "That's fine, miss," he said in a rare, good-natured tone, "I haven't heard that one before."

"I'm so sorry," she apologized as she placed Rosalie's drink before her. "I don't know what goes through her head. She does it all the time, make funny little comments about clients. I done told her to stop so many times."

Rosalie's entire demeanor had changed. "It's so cute," she said. "How old is she?"

"She'll be ten in three weeks," the mother informed them. "I'll just leave you two to pick out your orders."

While the mother left to sort out orders, the little girl approached them. She clutched a book - W_here's Waldo? _The copy was tattered and ripped at the corners. Rosalie felt her stomach melt at how she made her way past the waitresses and the tables, all taller than she. One eye – her right - was bright blue, she noticed, and the other, hazel-green.

"And you," she said in an angel-like voice, "you look like a fairy princess."

"Told you," Jasper says, winking. He cupped the little Alice's head and stroked the silky black hair.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Rosalie said in a friendly tone she reserved for small children. "What's your name, love?"

"My name's Alice," she informed them in a tone that sounded far more mature than expected. "My name is Mary Alice Brandon."

She held out her tiny little hand for Jasper to shake it. Evidently amused and smiling, Jasper shook it with his much larger one.

"What are _your _names?"

"I'm Jasper, and this is my sister, Rose."

"Why can't you walk, Rose?" she asked curiously.

A question like that from an adult would have enraged her. She answered softly, "Because I have a problem in my spine."

"And it can't get fixed," Alice said. Rosalie was briefly confused as to whether it was a statement or a question, and so opted for nodding. "And you're going to get married."

Rosalie laughed. "I wish," she said, a dark edge to her voice.

"You _are_," Alice insisted. "He will propose in eight months. But it's going to be a long time before you get married. Your Daddy will want him to study in Hardboard. He won't like his job now. But he'll come 'round."

Rosalie laughed harder; Jasper joined her. "I think you mean Harvard," she chuckled, "And it sounds about right."

"Anything in my future, Alice?" Jasper asked, still laughing.

"You are going to be very important," she told him. "Very powerful."

"Again, sounds about right," Rosalie said.

"And you're going to fall in love in 12 - "

"_Alice, for cryin' out loud!" _

* * *

**TBC **


	5. Chapter 4: Rosalie

**Author's Note: Thanks to all that have reviewed/liked this story so far! Only two chapter until we meet Bella. **

* * *

**December 1998 **

**Washington State **

When they reached their house, at 4:00, they found Edward and the Laura girl _humping _on the living room couch. He was above her, enveloped by her two legs. Even from a distance, Rosalie could hear the sloppy, messy sounds made by her brother's tongue and saliva as they devoured Laura's mouth with desperation. Both his hands were on her bare breasts, and he was dry-humping her, whining like a mutt hitting puberty.

Why anybody would want to be subject to that, Rosalie didn't know.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Edward?" Jasper barked.

Edward looked up, eyes bright, his face as red as his hair. Bracing his weight on both of his puny, chicken-wing like arms, the boy looked up at his siblings with the surprised expression Rosalie associated with a recently purchased house pet.

Then, Rosalie saw the bulge in his pants and cringed in horror.

"Ew!" she cried.

"We didn't think anybody would walk in here," Edward said breathlessly, desperately - turning an unfortunate shade of tomato red. He climbed off the couch.

The girl rolled over, her bare breasts visible to all. Unembarrassed at the fact that her bare breasts hung off her chest like deflated balloons, she got off after Edward. Her expression was one of silent, self-satisfied triumph. Like her sloppy lover, she was bright red all over. Rosalie didn't know if it was out of embarrassment at being caught or at the stamina of being subject to what Rosalie had just witnessed.

Edward stood there stupidly, alternating between putting his face in his hands and covering the large bulge in his pants. Meanwhile, the Laura girl calmly searched for her bra, as if her breasts weren't being exposed to her employers.

"We didn't think anybody would walk in here," Edward repeated idiotically.  
"The idea of walking through the front door _is _unheard off," Jasper said snidely.

Both of them remained silent.

"Now Rosalie and I are going to get out of here," Jasper continued in a dangerously calm, commanding voice. "And when we do, I want _you _to please put on a shirt and head back to doing your chores. And _you _– come see me in my office when you've wanked your erection off. Or it deflates. Whatever happens first."

Rosalie gagged. Jasper took the handles behind her chair and spun her around, headed towards the elevator behind the staircase.

The Laura girl was fishing around for her bra without covering her tits. She even looked up and showed them to Jasper.

Rosalie's were much, much prettier.

As the elevators door closed, she heard Jasper mutter,

"And just _lose _your damned virginity already. Maybe then you'll stop being such a bad kisser."

* * *

For the first time in days, they have a nice, quiet family meal together.

Elizabeth, basking in Edward's silence, had nagged him throughout the entire appetizers course about his dress choices. Then she lectured through the soup about the importance of appearance, with Uncle William chipping bible verses in. Every time she did, Maria bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Edward was blessedly quiet, eating his seared scallops with herb-butter and asparagus with the same concentration one would apply to a calculus exam. Rosalie wasn't shocked to find that her brother ate as sloppily as he kissed – like a boy right smack in the middle of puberty. Like a hawk, Elizabeth would notice every time he made noises with his mouth or used his fingers.

"Edward, you weren't raised in a barn."

"Edward, there are three different forks around you. Use them."

"Edward, you have been taught what each fork is for. Why on earth are you using your dessert cutlery for your scallops?"

Whenever Laura came anywhere near him, he turned scarlet – an unfortunate color to turn in his situation. He was so obtuse to the most basic fashion conventions that he was wearing a dark red shirt that read: _And then God said, let there be light _and had some random, complicated equation on it.

It was around the fifth time he had blushed. He looked like a sun-dried tomato.

"Aro Volturi's wife just had twins," Carlisle informed them. "We've been invited to the baptism in Rome."

Elizabeth looked surprised. "For a woman Sulpicia's age, that's nothing short of miraculous."

"It wasn't a miracle, Mother," Jasper said amusedly. "I suspect some fertility specialists had something to do with it. Sulpicia is 53 years old and Aro is 12 years older than Dad. Let's be realistic here."

Rosalie said: "That is so irresponsible, for a man that old to be having babies."

"Be that as it may," Carlisle said, "I'm happy for him. He has wanted this for as long as I have known him."

"You know what they say;" Edward said sarcastically, "12th wife does the trick."

"_Edward!_"

"12th wife and prostate cancer," Rosalie added, laughing.

"And the oldest one, too. It's the first woman he marries that isn't 30 years younger than him," Jasper chuckled.

"No, but seriously," Rosalie said. "That's really irresponsible of him to be popping out kids at 63. He'll be in his 80s when the kid's 18."

"Assuming he makes it to 70," Jasper said seriously.

"Aro's been dying of the same heart disease since he was 40," Carlisle said. "He's had cancer twice, and he's still as lucid and energetic as a twenty-year-old."

"And he's the richest man in the world," Maria added. "It's not like the kid'll starve to death in his absence."

* * *

On Wednesday night, she took out the dumbbells for the second time. She stretched like Emmett told her to, but still felt horribly sore. Then she began the exercises.

Elizabeth walked in when she was doing the third rep.

Her mouth fell open, if only for one second. She recovered in the blink of an eye, and gave Rosalie The Look.

Even though Jasper had rarely been on its receiving end, he coined the term in his teens. Since, it was used by Carlisle, Edward and Rosalie. Edward, the Look's favorite target, had high tolerance to receiving it and not caving.

Lady Elizabeth never raised her voice. Instead, she took the phrase if looks could kill to a different dimension. It was all in the eyes – in how they turned into small slits that only revealed the violet irises, which alone conveyed all her fury and disdain.

"What on earth do you think _you _are doing?"

The other tool in her arsenal was the word, "You" in which she injected all the disdain and scorn in her body. In it, she made it evident not that she was innately superior, but that by acting the way you were, you had made yourself a repulsive insect by comparison. The Look made you feel like you were that bug, to be quashed under her pointed heel.

Anybody who hadn't been raised by Elizabeth would have had the natural instinct of saying, "Nothing" and dropping the dumbbells. Being targets to Elizabeth's derision had taught the Cullen children to fight conceit with more conceit.

Except Edward, of course. Thinking himself to be noble, Edward fought back yelling insults and accusing her of being a manipulative, stuck-up bitch.

"My new therapist said it was good idea," Rosalie sneered haughtily.

"New?" Elizabeth half-shrieked, alarmed.

She quickly recovered.

"Why was I not informed of this change earlier?"

"Last time I checked, Mother, you didn't study medicine at Murray Edwards," Rosalie sneered.

"I am your _mother_," Elizabeth sneered, in a voice so frigid it frightened Rosalie into subordination.

Elizabeth's perfectly painted red lips twisted into a smile of satisfaction that reached her eyes, gleaming with victory.

"Doctor Burke has always been under strict instructions to inform your father and me of any decision, no matter how minor. I will make my displeasure known to him immediately."

Rosalie felt her spirits deflate.

"Mother, what's the point of calling him now? Wait until tomorrow."

* * *

That night, they were subject to a different type of tirade – Elizabeth's. Seated to Carlisle's right, she first yapped at Edward for his vulgar choice of attire that night. He had chosen to wear a parody the Vitruvian man that used Bart Simpson, whose genitals were covered by a maple leaf.

After Lauren served the salad - Rosalie mistook it for coleslaw and then realized her mother would never serve such a thing - Elizabeth changed the subject.

"Now, Carlisle, you won't believe what Burke has done. He's assigned a new physiotherapist to Rosalie's case."

Carlisle's interest – for his face was usually one of agonized boredom or of saintly patience – had piqued. Uncle William was so far gone he was snoring silently on his side on the table, lulled into sleep by Elizabeth's discourse on the Importance of Appearance .

"Has he done anything wrong?" he asked Rosalie, genuinely concerned.

Rosalie froze.

Had he? She loved Kathy – a fellow, no-nonsense blonde – that had not diverged from what Burke and her parents agreed upon. They'd built a good dynamic, based on the fact that Kathy was as professional as could be, asked no questions and understood her boundaries.

This Emmett character had no sense of boundaries - but he wasn't unprofessional, per se.

"I didn't think so," she finally said.

Her mother's mouth fell open. Rosalie expected her to attack with the dumbbell thing, but she was so shocked it appeared she had been rendered incapable of arguing.

"Then I don't understand what the problem is, Elizabeth," he said stiffly.

"We weren't consulted!" she finally spluttered, in an uncharacteristically uncouth utterance.

"In all honesty, Mother," Jasper said with the same saintly patience as Carlisle, "Rosalie is old enough to make her own medical decisions."

Elizabeth turned around to glare at Edward to verify he had not switched places with Jasper.

"And what gives _you_ the right to make that kind of assessment?"

Her voice was too high-pitched for the 'you' to have the desired effect.

"It's just a fact, Mother. Rosalie is legally an adult."

"Legally!" she screeched like a banshee. "Legally! She's a child in every other way."

"Just because you insist on manipulating us as if we were children, Mother," Edward's voice was rising, "that doesn't make us little kids."

"Carlisle!" she hissed.

"I agree with Jasper," Carlisle said quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And Edward – don't talk to your mother like that."

Rosalie remained quiet even though her mother's enraged eyes had found hers. They taunted her, daring her to make a statement.

A statement that she couldn't make. So many feelings were exploding inside of her, that she didn't know exactly what to say.

For the first time in her life, she opted for saying nothing. The matter was sealed by Uncle William, roused from his sleep by his nurse, who began a discourse on his own.

* * *

Later that night, she went out into the patio, a blanket draped on her shoulders and another draped on her legs. The patio was a small, terrace-like structure between the kitchen and the servant's quarters. They were shielded from the snow, falling gently, by a stone roof. It fell softly from the sky and landed like a sparkle on the snow stuck to the ground.

She joined her father and brothers in a cloud of smoke being released by three Cuban cigars. While they suited Jasper and Carlisle, Edward looked downright ridiculous - skinny and awkward, up against the wall and staring at his beat-up sneakers.

He was evidently having a hard time inhaling the smoke, and had turned purple. He wore the tortured expression of someone having a thousand Band-Aids being ripped off. Now that they were discussing actual politics, he seemed completely at a loss for words.

"What does Maria think about this – Fox, is it - president-elect?"

Jasper exhaled a puff of smoke. "He's charismatic, to be sure. She doesn't think he has the tools it takes to implement the reforms that are necessary. Not a lot of character. I met with him in his home state while we were staying with Maria's parents. If Lawrence makes it to the Oval Office he won't have much of a problem making sure the new government disrupts our national interests there."

"Do you know who he's appointing as Minister for Foreign Affairs?"

"I don't know. It seems like his party is hell-bent on establishing some sort of new doctrine. That's what the intell seems to say. Again, nothing disruptive to US interest. They're pursuing a more extensive free trade policy."

She always felt some strange comradeship built with Edward when they were in these types of situations. All three of them had been groomed to have impeccable knowledge of everything related to government, economics and even political science. She was sure that even Edward was more cultured than the average house representative.

From a very young age, they learned to listen. A comment at the dinner table when the men around you were talking politics was quickly putdown, its naiveté and stupidity exposed. And while she resented that she couldn't participate in politics and run - like her brother would be either compelled to or forced to in years to come - she was thankful she wasn't Edward.

One day, Edward would be expected to join the conversation without sounding like a fucking moron.

Tonight, neither she nor Edward was listening. Edward was too busy trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs and not give any indication that he wasn't ready to smoke a Cuban cigar.

There was something so_ intimidating _about it all. And in a lot of ways, she understood where Edward was coming from. It was better to cut your own path than to fail at the one that had been carved out by 14 generations.

She…

She was a failure by default.

The Cullen family was a beacon of tradition. Thus, with the exception of (childless) Cullen women involved in the feminist movement at the turn of the century, the family had not produced notable women. The family produced the wives of great men – stunning, regal wives that, with a single exception in nearly 4 centuries of history, were sterile. Rosalie was not stupid or naïve; she knew that life would not compensate her inability to walk or engage in a normal life with an ability to have babies of her own.

Not a single woman with a drop of Cullen blood had produced lineage. The only exception was her great-great-great Aunt, Mary Elizabeth Cullen. Mary Elizabeth Cullen had been the mother of a Confederate general and founder of the Confederate States of America: Jasper Lee Whitlock. The man passed childless, committing suicide when he found that slavery was outlawed in his beloved Texas.

Every generation, marrying into the Cullen family was a gamble. Marrying a Cullen daughter meant relinquishing one's right to children. Marrying a Cullen man was risky; out of each and every single Cullen generation, only a single son was able to produce offspring. (There had been one exception in the family's history: her great-Uncle Edward, her grandfather's brother, had fathered two sons. One baby was born with Down syndrome and passed in a Mental Institute in Virginia. The other became President, but died fatherless.) Her father's two siblings had passed in a plane crash with her grandparents in 1960.

Thus, Cullen women were forced to fulfill their secondary obligations as wives. As the family's ancestral mansion in Jamestown, Virginia attested, there had never been such a thing as an unattractive Cullen daughter. Their function became bringing their family political connections or wealth. The family's jewelry had been expanded greatly, in both quantity and quality, by its daughters, courted by European nobles and great statesmen.

The husband, in return, received a beautiful, intelligent ornament to accompany him in his journey to greatness. Knowing their daughters were cursed to infertility, Cullen mothers groomed their Cullen daughters. They knew how to run households seamlessly; to entertain fellow statesmen of all walks of life with great congeniality; and above all, to look impeccable at all times. Unsurprisingly, the family had produced six First ladies.

Looking impeccable at all times was wasted on Rosalie. Her father was the country's most important politician. A TIME article had deemed him the most influential man on the planet writing: "_Politicians come and go, but Carlisle Cullen never goes out of style." _

While they were living in D.C, Rosalie had been jealously guarded from the public. To this date, there wasn't a single photograph of her available to the public. To this day, Rosalie had never ridden a car without black tinted windows. While they were living in France, she was the only person delivered at the gate. During her father's campaign, she only went to a select number of rallies. Those that attended the rallies were forced to sign a legal contract; photographers were asked to leave their cameras and cellphones at the gate.

Rosalie was reduced to nothing but the access to golden connections and pedigree. She wasn't appealing to anybody that could account to anything big on their own. All her worth lay in the fact that she was the fastest ticket imaginable to a seat in the Senate, and – if Carlisle felt generous – a Governor's mansion. America's biggest fish could see great worth in the ticket.

Except, her ticket was maimed. The price of having no grandchildren was barely tolerable; no grandchildren and no legs - intolerable.

Her mother knew this and was hedging her bets. She found a suitable match in the power-hungry Mattress King – a man who had made fortune out of selling mattresses. The King had been raised in a trailer by a drunken mother and a man charged of three hate crimes against the local Quileute tribe. His wife's greatest feat was being crowned Miss Port Angeles in the late 70s. The King had ambitions for his son, and Rosalie Cullen – crippled as she may be – was deemed the fastest ticket to greatness.

Royce himself was _nothing _like his crude, uneducated parents. He was handsome, smart and well-educated. Being smarter than his parents, he had his trepidations about spending the rest of his life with a wheelchair-bound woman. He was still somewhat aloof and still hadn't officially asked her out.

And this Emmett guy…This Emmett person was _her ticket. _Her ticket to showing Royce life with her wouldn't be hell.

* * *

**TBC **


	6. Chapter 5: Rosalie

**December 1998 **

**Washington State **

Rosalie woke up that morning to the feeling of her mother's fingers on her cheek, on her eyelids, on her nose. When her eyes fluttered open, her mother gave her a blinding smile. When she smiled so, Elizabeth looked thirty years younger – and extraordinarily beautiful. With the exception of her blonde hair, Rosalie was Elizabeth's splitting image, with a pert nose, large, violet-colored eyes and a perfect jaw.

"Marilyn King called," Elizabeth said softly, touching her nose to Rosalie's. "They've invited us to dinner tonight."

The words felt like a punch to her stomach; a stomach that was suddenly filled with butterflies. The air left her lungs in a rush; a rush of warmth heated her body. She sat up, bracing her weight on her arm. Her useless legs would not move her. A soft smile twisted on her lips, even as her stomach leaped inside her body, ready to expel all its contents.

Yet she exercised that self-control Carlisle Cullen and all of his predecessors were famous for. She didn't want to show her mother how she really felt – especially because Elizabeth's demeanor had transformed, tender moment forgotten.

"Now," Elizabeth said, business-like; spine as straight as the columns on the Lincoln memorial, shoulders back, chin tilted up. She asked, "Have you worn all of your dresses from our last trip to Barney's?"

"I haven't worn _some_ in front of Royce."

She didn't dare admit that she had organized her closet – or supervised Carmen as she folded her clothes, anyway – by what Royce had seen her wear and by what he hadn't. It made her feel silly, and Elizabeth did not tolerate silliness above all things.

"Don't be silly, Rosalie," Elizabeth said, her accent adorning her voice and giving it splendor. "That ought to be irrelevant. Your clothing is _yours –_and you ought to look presentable for yourself, not for others. Your brother seems to have forgotten this, unfortunately."

Rosalie was left speechless – and as she often did, chose to say nothing further on the matter. She pursed her lips and pulled her covers off her limp legs. She felt dizzy, as though the blood had drained from her head. The chair was within her reach, but she didn't know whether pulling it towards her person was a good idea. Elizabeth was somewhere in the depths of her closet, commenting on the suitability of some of her dresses. Each comment felt like the bite of a leech, leaving her even dizzier in its wake – yet she registered none of the comment's intended messages.

For someone whose posture, attire, looks and even diction reflected the best of British aristocracy, Elizabeth _rambled _on far too much. Most of her life had gone by in a blur because she spent so much of it in her mother's company. Rosalie had blocked out about 25% of everything she heard, simply because it was so repetitive.

"Maybe that's why Jasper doesn't say much," Rosalie muttered under her breath. She was still glaring the chair down, imagining – as she often did – that it had somehow come to life. It taunted her from where it was parked, daring her to climb on to it by herself at the risk of falling.

"Oh, do you need my help, darling?"

She was about to say yes when she was filled with sudden inspiration.

"Um – maybe you – maybe you shouldn't have to need to help me all the time?"

Fuck. She kept on berating Edward for not taking advantage of his gene pool – one that offered the ability to say things with certainty and with respect – but she sounded like a squeaky little mouse.

Elizabeth's expression froze, and her eyes glazed over as though as if she had suddenly been possessed.

Rosalie's mouth went dry. "Mother, I – I think this new guy – erm, new physiotherapist is a good thing. He's teaching me how to do things like these by myself."

Elizabeth body sagged uncharacteristically. She sat down in Rosalie's bed, three dresses tucked in between her arm and body. Rosalie doubted Elizabeth sat in her _own _bed. She wouldn't know – they weren't allowed into that particular bedroom.

"I oughtn't to have asked Jasper to take you yesterday," she said in a voice revealing uncharacteristic vulnerability. She sighed, and placed her hand atop Rosalie's. Her mother's hands looked like Rosalie's would in 25 years' time. She squeezed it.

"Love, I did a background check on this _McCarthy _character. He has a degree from the _Chattanooga_ community college," she said somberly, her face a mask of horror. "He grew up in the poorest county in Tennessee – _Tennessee, _sweetheart, not Massachusetts - and he followed a _pregnant _cocktail waitress to Seattle, where it turns out, she delivered a child that was not even his. My darling, I don't want you to be treated by some promiscuous redneck that cannot even keep track of his _tarts." _

Each word was pronounced with great distaste, her nose wrinkling as if merely uttering the word caused a horrid stench.

"And, he's twenty-one!" she added almost hysterically, as if that were worse that the cocktail waitress fact.

"And how did you come across this information, Mother?" Rosalie seethed her anger building. "Was it somehow freely available on some sort of public register?"

Elizabeth scoffed. "Don't be silly, Rosalie."

"Mother, you don't have the right to have J. Edgar Hoover's lackeys running background checks on people without any warranty! That man has a right – a _constitutional right – _to privacy!"

Elizabeth rose from the bed. "Bloody hell, Rosalie! I have a _right _to know who is treating you!"

"You have the right to _ask_ him for his NPTE scores, Mother, not for a detailed account of his personal life!"

"It was hardly detailed," Elizabeth petulantly. "And for heaven's sake, lower your voice."

"How would you feel if it was public knowledge that – oh, I don't know – that you – that your daughter - ?"

She felt her eyes clouding with tears.

Elizabeth's eyes turned to steel.

"Don't you dare say it's the same situation, Rosalie! Don't you _bloody _dare."

"Constitutionally, mother," she said, her voice hard even though her resolve was dying, "this man has the exact same rights to privacy that I do."

Elizabeth reconsidered her strategy, and after a minute of silence that felt eternal, finally said,

"Do you have even a rough idea of how many death threats your father looks over on a daily basis?"

"Not many, Mother. Not on a _daily _basis."

Elizabeth's voice turned cold, as though as if the anger had been blown away by a blizzard. Her face transformed into a haughty, cold mask that garnered her the nickname, "_Ironwife" _because her marriage to Carlisle Cullen unfortunately coincided with Margaret Thatcher.

What she said was said in the snootiest, iciest voice – a voice she reserved for pesky news reporters. Being on its receiving end made Rosalie want to break down and cry.

"During the election campaign for Washington State, they registered six fairly legitimate attempts to assassinate your father. Three of them are publically being tried for planting bombs in public establishments."

Rosalie was left speechless.

"Your brother is naïve enough to think that he's frolicking about Chicago unsupervised, but I didn't expect the same naïveté from you."

Elizabeth gave her a cold, hard stare, but when she spoke, her voice broke - the Iron Wife had melted at the sight of a single tear from Rosalie.

"Rosalie, we have _never _been ashamed or – or anything like it," she said. Her eyes turned glassy with tears that she rarely shed. "We are so proud of who you are and of the woman you've become, and _nothing_ would give us greater pleasure than to tell the world."

Her expression hardened, turning into a strange mixture of pain and sternness.

"Your father is a very public man – has always been – and has more power than his official titles would indicate. You could be – are – a target to a great many factions wishing to do your father harm – and the family as the … as the _institution _that it is –. The last thing we want is for it to be public knowledge that – that… well – that you can't _run._"

Tears were dripping down Rosalie's face, leaving salty trails on both of her cheeks and falling into the crook of her neck. Across from her, a carbon copy of herself was crying too. Her mother's tears gave her strength to fight back.

"Maybe if you let this Emmett man teach me how to do _some _things, I wouldn't be as defenseless as you two think I am."

Elizabeth aggressively wiped her own tears off with both fisted hands.

"We don't think you're _defenseless_," Elizabeth spat brusquely.

_Then stop making me defenseless. _

The thought was crystal clear in her mind, yet for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to open her mouth. The words never caught in her throat; they never made it there. Her mother has never quite glared at her the way she's doing now; like a wounded, aggressive animal, ready to lash out – pained.

Elizabeth quickly realized her triumph, and it gleamed in her large, violet eyes.

"Now get that Carmen character to help you change into something nice, and to pack you a bag with toiletries. It's silly to drive back to Forks when we can just check in at a suite at the Fairmont. I think the red Dior number will do."

* * *

Rosalie had watched her brother champion causes he deemed worthy, to no avail, from the moment he hit puberty. Edward turned from a beautiful little boy to a severely acned, gangly thing with a silly little mustache that was too short to shave and too thick to go unnoticed. So for a while, at nine, she found his relentless nagging stupid and irritating. Then puberty hit _her_. And for a while, she joined Edward.

Rosalie emerged from puberty much quicker than Edward, and learned – not without pain – that it was no use. There was something in Cullen genes that simply propelled them forward, beckoning them to their fate. As much as she wanted to, she said nothing.

As Rosalie rolled down the corridor – filled with a different sensation than that which Jasper had inspired – she couldn't help but to feel her dislike of this Emmett character rise exponentially. He caught a glimpse of him as he left the therapy room, laughing – a loud, rambunctious laugh, that resonated down the hallway. He had such a _deep _voice, too - the type of voice that would make Edward sound like the mice from Cinderella.

He was talking to a girl Rosalie recognized but had never spoken to – not that the former hadn't tried to start a conversation. The girl was frumpy; she had well-endowed breasts but wore a bra that did not emphasize it adequately and instead made her look like a fat man. Rosalie could see the lace halfway through the bra's cup and sniffed out condescension at the mental joke that arose. Evidently, she made _her _shopping at Forever 61.

The features weren't ugly, of course, but the mascara she wore was smudged, her hair was evidently straightened but there were some strands that had been left curled. And she was _fat – _the shirt she wore did nothing but to emphasize large love handles that contained more triglycerides than Rosalie's entire body.

And she was making this Emmett character laugh.

Elizabeth reached the pathetic pair before Rosalie did; she gave them both a smile that said a thousand words. A smile that was falsely kind and indicated that they were granted the smile because they were too pathetic to deserve a glare. A smile of friendliness that emanated animosity and left it clear to the receptor that they were but bugs to be squashed.

Rosalie was in awe; but a little remorse made her abandon rolling herself down a meter away from them. The last thing she wanted was Elizabeth Cullen to crush Emmett McCarthy's self-assurance; Rosalie hadn't been able to make him feel _bad _the way she had intended. She was sure that for her mother, however, the same task was child's play.

Emmett turned towards her and gave her a cursory glance; he merely nodded – his dislike evident. Elizabeth looked taken aback but quickly recovered and folded her arms; she tapped her foot thrice and gave a derisive little chortle.

The girl finally stopped talking and looked up at Elizabeth. The smile reappeared along with the derisive chortle of amusement – a friendly sound that thinly veiled the fact that she thought her to be silly. Emmett gave Elizabeth a second cursory glance, of irritation that wasn't hidden but wasn't necessarily impolite.

"Anyways, Alex," he said, a smile on his face. "Have a great time in Michigan, and I'll see you in January." He touched her shoulder, and then bent down to give her a hug.

Elizabeth looked up at the ceiling, making her impatience as clearly as a wailing toddler did.

Only then did Rosalie begin to feel shame.

There Emmett was, genuinely hugging a patient of his in a professional friendship; he seemed to _like _this girl. Of course it wasn't physical attraction; there was nothing to salvage how undesirable this girl must be.

"Merry Christmas, Em," the girl said.

Emmett released her. As he did, his eyes met hers. He gave her a smile that was professionally friendly – without that cheerfulness she so disliked in other therapists she had come across – but that made it clear to her that he didn't _enjoy _having her as a patient the way he did this Alex person.

"Oh, wait. Before you leave – "

He stuck his large hand into one of the pockets in his scrubs. It seemed to wrinkle. He took out a green lollipop, shaped like a Christmas tree. It was clumsily wrapped in a red ribbon, looking like a toddler's work.

"Merry Christmas, kiddo."

She smiled at him again.

"Thanks, Em."

"You got it, kid."

Rosalie was suddenly filled with panic. She didn't want to go through the awkwardness of making eye contact – and potentially smiling – at this Alex girl. She searched for her purse and briefly berated herself on not bringing anything to assist her in the case of such awkwardness.

As Alex spun round, Rosalie spun forward, but the frumpy girl still gave her an awkward smile. Rosalie, panic-stricken, only winced.

Emmett held out his hand to Elizabeth.

"Emmett McCarthy," he said, without veiling his seriousness or coldness. His brazen attitude towards Elizabeth was making it clear that he would not be bullied into feeling less. Elizabeth shook his hand; masterfully, she made her disgust tacit, but made it look as if it were veiled.

"Elizabeth Cullen," she said. The emphasis on her last-name was subtle but meant to be effective. Emmett appeared unfazed.

Emmett's response to Elizabeth's indirect psychological attacks had garnered him Rosalie's admiration. The man had held his ground better than US senators; he had even gone as far as to take charge of the encounter. However, he seemed absolutely obtuse to the fact that he was talking to Elizabeth _fucking _Cullen.

"I recognized you," Emmett said in a voice that was perfectly congenial and perfectly cold. "I saw the piece on your husband in the Seattle Times this morning."

…Or not.

"Did you?" Elizabeth said, falsely pleasant. "It wasn't front-page news."

The jab was ill-concealed, but Emmett didn't look wounded. He also wasn't political or diplomatic enough to return the joke with a synthetic smile, or witty enough to snipe back.

"Let's get crackin'," he said to Rosalie, not bland but not energetic.

"Before you get _cracking,_" Elizabeth said in an acidly sweet voice, a coldly amused smile on her perfect lips. "Mr. McCarthy, my husband and I are very thankful for your services, but would like to re-evaluate Rosalie's case. We feel she may not need what you offer."

Emmett looked drained, and visibly irritated.

"With all due respect, ma'am, my job is to follow Dr. Burke's orders," Emmett said coolly. "And Dr. Burke seems to think that I should be treating Rosalie."

Elizabeth gave him yet another derisive yet friendly smile, but her eyes had turned to slits. Everything about her body, save her smile, indicated that Elizabeth now viewed Emmett as an irritable insect to be squashed.

"Mr. McCarthy, this is a conversation that we ought to be having in the presence of Doctor Burke," Elizabeth said sweetly. Rosalie was amazed at how there was an undercurrent of irritation, made evident by a ephemeral glare. Emmett was either obtuse to it or very skilled in the art of dealing with other people.

"Look, Mrs. Cullen," he said, impatient. "How about we do this now, and then when Doctor B. get's back from the Bahamas, you take it up with him? How 'bout that?"

…Or not.

Elizabeth recoiled like a snake about to strike, now glaring quite openly. The respect McCarthy had gained from Rosalie had vanished; she now had her palm against her hand and was containing a series of groans. She looked at Emmett desperately. She hadn't wanted to end this now. She hated what an oaf he was, but she wanted to continue this skill-building.

As much as she liked Kathy, Kathy was too sycophantic to keep her ground. This guy was either obtuse, or stupidly blunt or brutally blunt. He clearly lacked ambition, and unlike Kathy, wasn't smart enough to know that even in the medical world, the name Cullen had weight. Her family was patron to a number of institutions.

But their eyes met, anyway. Her dislike was strong in her own face – mirrored in his, to a lesser degree. And knowing she would regret it later, she pleaded with him with her eyes.

Like a hawk, Elizabeth noticed. Elizabeth noticed the way her eyes widened, the way his did. The way her face gentled, the line of her lips softened, and how it all made her look much more beautiful than she did seconds earlier. The large oaf's eyes seem to widen in shock at Rosalie's barriers collapsing, the way they acquiesce to her silent plea.

"Rosalie, we should best be going," she said, injecting much more emotion and anger in her accent strongly British than she intended. She grabbed

She grabbed the handles on Rosalie's chair.

Emmett looked so upset his face had turned a shade of purple; his irritation at both mother and daughter was evident in his face.

"No, mother, I think we shouldn't."

She locked the brakes on the chair so Elizabeth couldn't move her.

The words and came out of her mouth but she hadn't even registered thinking them. Her expression must've looked exactly like Elizabeth's, because she hadn't purposefully intended to defy her mother like that publically. In spite of his evident irritation, he looks _amused. _

"_Unlock the brakes," _Elizabeth hisses through gritted teeth. "_For fuck's sake, unlock them now." _

Rosalie lost her nerve and did as she was told. Elizabeth spun her around with more strength than her skinny body appeared to be capable of.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cullen," Emmett said. The stiffness with which he spoke exposed his lie.

In a rare show of rudeness, Elizabeth only nodded and said, "Mr. McCarthy."

Rosalie was pushed down the corridor of Floor 12 as if Elizabeth were racing.

* * *

**TBC **


	7. Chapter 6: Lauren

**A hint of E/B ... and some insight into why Lauren Mallory "wrote" the Ides of March. **

* * *

**September 2024 **

**Moscow, Russia **

His hair had turned a silvery gray, but Edward Cullen had the good fortune of looking even better every day. Long gone were the days were his voice was squeaky and his musculature skinny. The boyish innocence his eyes emanated during his youth had turned into a cold, calculating and somehow aloof demeanor. Maturity hadn't only rid him of his teenage awkwardness; it had helped him grow into his height and added a few much needed pounds – in muscle – to his frame. It had granted him charm, and elegance – a quiet sophistication that made even the most battle-hardened woman go weak at the knees. Emotionally detached, elegant and calculating, Edward Cullen remained horribly, disgustingly, deliciously attractive.

Unlike the boy he had once been, Edward Anthony Cullen knew himself to be attractive. He understood what it was that made him worthy of such a description – and unlike the boy he had once been, he wasn't self-righteous enough to not use it to his advantage. And so, even though he was married – had been married for 11 years – to a strikingly beautiful woman, Edward Cullen cheated regularly.

Contrary to popular opinion – and most importantly her own – Lauren Mallory wasn't stupid; she knew she and Jessica Stanley weren't the only women that gave him blow-jobs in his office on a regular basis. He had a number of mistresses that he was extraordinarily adept at hiding, including his two subordinates. Edward wasn't stupid and knew better than to cheat without careful planning. Jessica Stanley and Lauren Mallory were back-ups – safe outlets for his frustrations when he was pissed at his current wife, pining over his old one, or horny. Most often, either of the two was summoned when he suffered from a combination of both.

It just so happened that Lauren Mallory and Jessica Stanley were the only two that were so vulnerable and so self-disparaging that they did not take offense when he cried out Isabella Swan's name when he came.

This ought to have created a strange kind of kinship. After all, not only had Edward Cullen completely obliterated any sense of self-worth they had once possessed, but both women had devoted their lives to his service. Initially, it hadn't been much of a sacrifice. Both _had _moved to the East Coast to serve in his staff, Lauren as a personal assistant and Jessica – a talented writer and UDub graduate – as a junior speechwriter.

For 10 years, they had followed his promising political career, first as he served as a Representative for the State of Virginia, and later, as its Senator. The hours had been long, and the job, taxing, but like the rest of the nation, they had fallen in love with the charming, young, well-bred Senator.

The true sacrifices started much later. If anything, Lauren knew her place in the world and understood she would have never amounted to anything anyhow. Jessica had been talented and could've made a career in campaigning; she chose not to. For the past four years, both she and Jessica had truly wrecked their lives for him – past the point of sanity, anyhow. When Edward Anthony Cullen was appointed US Ambassador to Germany, the two of them followed him like lovesick puppies. When he was moved further east and further north, to Russia, Lauren had – on some level – realized she'd gone beyond reasonable limits.

But she was too far gone.

Lauren wasn't stupid. When their physical relationship had started – 25 years earlier that December – Lauren had been the smarter, more experienced partner. The boy she made-out with in December of 1998 was very different from the man she sucked when he asked today. He'd been horny, putty in his hands and vulnerable.

When the tables turned, Lauren wasn't able to turn with them. On some level, she knew it. She knew that she had rested on her laurels.

It was very different now. Lauren was the vulnerable partner. She hadn't slept with anyone _but _Edward Cullen for years. Her one-night stands didn't turn in to relationships like she hoped and relationships were short-lived but because he invariable found out. When he did, he punished her for it in his own sadistic way. Edward didn't love her, but he needed her.

Nobody had made her feel wanted in her life – even if she was wanted purely because she was at his beck and call.

* * *

Jessica Stanley graduated from the University of Washington and started working as Carlisle Cullen's staff while he was governor of Washington. The governor thought that she was, indeed, a talented writer – but not talented _enough_ for Carlisle Cullen. She was dispatched to work with Edward in Virginia when he ran for House Representative in 2005.

Unbeknownst to the governor, Jessica had been fucked by Edward 25 different times _before that. _

Or maybe knew, and didn't care.

Both options were likely.

But Jessica cared – and she hated herself for caring so much. She spent her life and ruined her health past yo-yo dieting in the hopes that he would treat her nicely. A sultry smile from the Ambassador's lips was enough to make deny herself either carbs or protein (whatever the fad was) for weeks. A cold, cruel fuck would make her feel so dejected she would eat her weight in Blini – a Russian pancake – smothered in nutella.

Much like her relationship with Edward Cullen, it was a vicious cycle that she was too weak to break away from.

There were fulfilling things about her job. Unlike Lauren Mallory, who has sat in a desk opposite hers for the last decade and a half, she wasn't a lackey. Jessica handled his _professional _things – proofreading documents, scheduling appointments, making _important _phone calls. Jessica wrote his speeches in the event that he had to make them. Lauren played mediator between him and the mothers of his two children – Jessica didn't envy her the task of having to be polite to Isabella Swan – fetched coffee and administered his young son's bills.

The one task Jessica did envy Lauren happened on the second week of September.

As a result, she'd been glaring at Lauren every five minutes. Lauren's job required so little concentration that her blonde counterpart was able to glare back. As if to illustrate why, Edward came into their office. Their two desks were separated from everybody else's by a glass door. Edward's office was in the room that followed, and had its own private bathroom and a space for meetings. There was a large box tucked in between his arm.

In spite of the fact that his presence made her go weak at the knees, she was able to formulate her squeaky greeting every morning.

"Good morning, Ambassador" she said promptly in an unctuous voice.

A half-minute later (and several beats too late), Lauren's greeting followed. The fact that her greeting came faster was one of the joys in Jessica's life. She believed the Ambassador thought Lauren was stupid, and that made her happy too.

Edward didn't acknowledge either of them.

"It's my daughter's birthday present," he said to Lauren in that quiet, commanding voice of his that made Jessica fantasize. "_Please _make sure it arrives on September 10th. Send it as a diplomatic pouch to my brother's office. He'll forward it from there."

With great care, he placed the box in front of her.

"Oh, and wrap it nicely, will you? We don't want to repeat my wife's anniversary fiasco, do we? And for the love of god, Lauren, make sure it doesn't break."

Before Lauren had a chance to respond, he dumped his coat unceremoniously on Jessica's desk.

"Put Meyers from the Secretary of Defense on the phone," he instructed.

"Yes, sir."

The door to his private office hadn't clicked closed, and Lauren had already started removing the gift from its box. There was a hungry look in her face. Jessica feigned disinterest and began dialing Meyers' phone.

In Jessica's experience, Edward had never sent his daughter a birthday gift that wasn't breathtakingly beautiful or obscenely expensive. On her twelfth birthday, he sent her a leather-bound diary that opened with a heart-shaped locker made of gold. On her fifteenth, he sent her a bejeweled carousel that Jessica knew was worth a year's worth of her paychecks. Jessica had always wished she could read the accompanying letter, but not only was it sealed – Lauren was given the task of sending it to its recipient. Jessica dialed nonetheless, eyes fixated on the object Lauren was ruining by touching with her greasy fingers.

It was a silver, miniature replica of a _Fabergé _egg. The egg's backdrop was purple, with silver vines twisting around it. Where the vines met, there were little four-petal flowers that sparkled even in the dim October light. The egg fit into Lauren's palm, but Jessica was sure – as she often was – that that little craft was worth six of her paychecks.

Gingerly, Lauren opened the clasp at the top. There was a crystal swan – Jessica had ordered it from Swarovski two months earlier at his request – nestled into a bed of dark violet velvet.

"Don't even think about touching it," Jessica snapped.

Lauren had the decency to blush, but only leered in return.

* * *

Lauren's main job was to ensure that Ambassador Edward Cullen never dealt with the women that had mothered his spawn. When "Lauren's job surpassed her mental capacity," as Edward had put it to Jessica's glee – she was assisted by a business associate of Carlisle Cullen's called Liam O'Brien.

His son was product of a drunken one-night stand with an Italian model called Renata Lombardi. After bearing Edward Cullen's child, Renata had not amounted to much. Like Lauren and Jessica, Renata had mistakenly hoped Edward would be kind.

He wasn't.

Like Lauren and Jessica, she was expertly manipulated and then crushed by Senator-turned-Ambassador Edward Cullen. On some level, Lauren and Jessica felt a strange kind of kinship with the woman. Renata had once been a very striking young woman. Her career had been about to take off when she found herself pregnant – by accident.

Lauren had it in good authority that Edward had taken several paternity tests to ensure Lombardi hadn't been tricking him into anything. As of that moment, however, there was no doubt in anybody's head that the boy – Edward John, fondly known as EJ - was _most _certainly Edward's child.

Where Renata was concerned, it was O'Brien's job to make sure that she received as little money as possible. Renata didn't have custody and had never been married to Edward, but she still demanded large amounts of money. Edward had gone to court three times throughout EJ's childhood, excluding their initial legal battle. To keep the matter from escalating, Carlisle Cullen had paid her a very generous sum. A couple of years later, he furiously demanded that Edward take charge of his own mistake.

O'Brien was only involved when Renata became particularly stubborn. For most of EJ's life, it was Lauren who had very literally relayed messages from Renata to Edward and back. Ambassador Edward Cullen, by then, had become either too self-important or too immature to _talk _to the mother of his child and decide where EJ would spend Christmas. Where custody battles were concerned, Ambassador Edward Cullen was tyrannical and cruel.

One of the great mysteries of Lauren's life was why Edward was so ungenerous with one mother and so generous with the other. Part of it, Lauren supposed, had to do with the fact that EJ had lived with Edward his entire life. As such, EJ had the very best money could buy. But for some reason beyond Lauren's comprehension, Elizabeth – the daughter he had with the Swan cunt – lived with her mother, even though he could have crushed her as mercilessly as he did Renata Lombardi.

Isabella Swan had never asked for a penny, but was given full access to a Cullen bank account. Lauren had not seen her use the account _once_ in the last 14 years. Thus, Lauren was given the enjoyable task of paying for Elizabeth's cellphone bill – all the way from _Moscow_ - and to fish for random little expenses Edward could cover. During Elizabeth's early teenage years, she had hoped that Edward would go to court with the Swan cunt yet again. The daughter had realized Daddy would buy anything she asked when her mother denied it or refused to buy it.

For some bewildering reason, Edward caved to Isabella's parenting – and Lauren had to _call Isabella every time Elizabeth asked for something_.

Lauren didn't understand.

Elizabeth was conceived the day the divorce was finalized. 273 days after the ink dried on the divorce papers, Elizabeth Swan-Cullen came into the world. Instead of annulling the divorce when he found out the Swan cunt was expecting his child, he moved in with her. When he moved out when their daughter was four, the custody battle was brutal. Lauren had witnessed it.

After being granted primary custody, they were never in the same room. Lauren's job for a couple of months was answering his phone – cellphone or otherwise – for him, pre-screening his e-mails and forewarning security. The purpose of the tasks was to ensure that they would never come into contact. Lauren was more than happy to oblige.

And then one day, out of the blue, he said:

"_Call my daughter's mother and tell her my lawyers will be in contact with her shortly to re-negotiate custody arrangements." _

Within a month, Lauren escorted the little twit to her mother's residence.

And that was that.

Except, of course, it wasn't.

The little monster broke her iPhone – which she never used properly anyhow – with surprising speed. Since then, Lauren had been given the task of calling _every single day _until the girl hit puberty and started becoming more and more difficult to handle. There was a brief moment of hope when Swan moved to New York; Lauren had hoped that Edward would take back custody forever, but again – he only lasted a month.

The cycle repeated itself when he moved to Germany as Ambassador, and then to Russia. In the end, his daughter stayed with his mother.

Of course, Edward never communicated with Isabella if he could help it – although Lauren had fucked up a number of times.

And Lauren had failed at her main function which was enabling Edward Cullen, as he himself had said, "to talk to his daughter without the hassle of speaking to bitch that bore her". This would've made both women insanely happy …

… But both knew, like Edward's wife, Tanya did that Edward Cullen was still insanely, irrevocably in love with Isabella Swan.


	8. Chapter 7: Rosalie

**Bella is about to appear in the story - two more chapters! This story IS centered around Bella and Edward. The cover was changed because I think that actor is a better embodiment of what I think Edward ought to look like. **

* * *

**December 1998 **

**Washington State **

On their way to Royce's large house in the outskirts of Seattle, Carlisle regaled them with the tragic tale of Forks' chief of police.

"Charlie Swan had a stroke about three days ago. He's served the force for 20 years, and I fear that his insurance won't cover treatment as extensive as he'll need. They've contacted some of his friends but there isn't much they can do to care for him after he's released."

Rosalie hadn't known the man well, although when the family hosted cocktails for the good people of Forks, they made a point of inviting the lonely hermit. He seemed socially awkward – much like her own brother – and uncomfortable, but his discomfort didn't seem to stem from the fact that they were serving him caviar and Dom Perignon. In any case, he struck Rosalie as kindhearted in his own kind of way – and unlike the other 320 people, dignified.

As chief of police, he had sat at the Cullen table. Instead of spending the evening with his mouth glued to their asses, he'd discussed the town's safety issues and lack of funding. He didn't strike her as a lobbyist; what he said stemmed from genuine concern.

Rosalie liked him.

Under different circumstances, Rosalie would have cared.

That night, she didn't.

She was too overwhelmed by everything.

The memory of the first time her mother slapped her for insolence was still fresh in her mind. Her cheek had stopped burning, but her mother's wedding ring had left a dent on her cheek that seemed indelible. Now swollen and an unsightly purple, it marred her otherwise perfect visage. Carlisle had inspected the cut, but she'd been to overcome by shame to say anything about it.

* * *

_The elevator is empty when they reach it. Elizabeth spins her around as if the chair were made of Styrofoam, not titanium. Before she has a chance to respond, her mother's hand found her cheek with such force, the chair crashed against the elevator's wall. The _thud _the chair made was small, but the impact of it wasn't. The air was knocked out of her lungs, not because it had hurt but because of the shock. Her eyes began to burn with tears. Some tears slipped out before she regained her composure. _

"_You will never speak to me like that in public again. Never again," Elizabeth huffed, her eyes ablaze. "Is that understood?" _

_Gasping for air and holding back tears of rage and shame, Rosalie only managed to say, "Yes, Mother." _

* * *

"And he doesn't have family?"

Edward's soft voice broke her reverie, bringing them back to chief Swan's tragedy.

"He has a daughter. I offered to pick her up from the Seattle airport the day we drop you off. She's flying in to care for him, even though the chief doesn't seem to like the idea."

"How old is she?" Edward asked.

"What, you're thinking of banging her?" Rosalie asked acidly in a low voice. She doesn't even feel bad for the snarky little comment, even though her brother's voice sounds so horribly _sweet _she would feel like smothering him in kisses. But she's pissed – not as pissed as her mother, but pissed. He's wearing ripped jeans and one of his hippie, devil-may-care t-shirts with _Malcolm X _spread across it like PB&J on toast.

He's such a self-centered little fuck he doesn't seem to realize this is about _her. _This wasn't about defining their parents, or about him indicating to everybody that he's trying to cut his own path. Sometimes, she feels so much _older. _

"She's seventeen," Carlisle said.

* * *

_After she finishes crying - filled with regret because her eyes are going to look puffy -, sitting like an idiot in her chair – not knowing how to do anything – anxiety kicks in. She's alone in a Fairmont suite, trying to put on a pair of high heels that she's never going to walk in. The dinner is in a couple of hours and there's nobody here. _

_The objects around her came alive, taunting her inability to do nothing about her plight, and before she knew it, she was having difficulty breathing. As much as she hated herself for it, she was having another panic attack. And there was nothing more frightening than a panic attack, which in an of itself only worsened the ordeal. __Nothing upset her – or her brothers, she had learned – as much as hearing someone say that they were having a panic attack. _

_Rosalie had started to have them somewhere along the lines of early childhood and adolescence, when she was left alone. The nausea hit first; she saw the furniture around her spin back and forth as if rocked by waves._

_She's having a panic attack. It's so familiar that almost ought to comfort her but the sense of feeling of trapped is so overwhelming that she can't even breathe. Her hands wrap like manacles around her neck as if to force the air to come out. _

_All that gets her through it is the knowledge that it'll pass. _

_Eventually, Elizabeth ventures into the room, but she's too far gone into the anxiety to notice details. _

"_It's alright, sweetheart, it's alright. I'm so sorry, darling, so sorry…" _

* * *

Edward mulled the information over.

"That sucks for her."

"You're so eloquent," Rosalie said snarkily. "Good luck turning him into a good politician, Daddy."

Carlisle laughed, thinking she was genuinely joking. At the look of actual dejection on Edward's face, she began to feel bad – but it was too marginal a feeling. She knows she genuinely hit a nerve – because it's a very raw one in her.

They drive in awkward silence for the remaining five minutes. The closer they get to the King home, the more her nerves rise. Jasper and Maria are driving behind them, and the closer their car gets, the more she feels like vomiting. Elizabeth successfully calmed her down.

Elizabeth stretched out her hand and squeezes Rosalie's, smiling gently. Both of them look impeccable. Elizabeth has the talent – Rosalie less so – of being able to put on the most amazing show of happiness no matter how bloody they felt. There isn't a hair out of place. The paint on her face was applied so expertly that it's impossible to tell it was even put there.

"How do we know the Kings?" Edward asked boyishly, in that soft, eternally squeaky voice of his.

Rosalie felt her stomach leap but a smile crawl onto her lips. Rosalie didn't blush easily. Elizabeth looked amused at her son's naiveté, and said,

"Royce and Rosalie go to school together, love."

Edward scratched his head, evidently confused. Rosalie bit back a smile. The truth was, being with Royce made her horribly, disgustingly happy – the idea of somebody wanting _her _sent butterflies fluttering up her stomach and made her want to laugh.

It took her clumsy brother a couple of minutes to realize the nature of their relationship.

"_Oh._"

Rosalie snorted.

"He's your _boyfriend?_"

Carlisle coughed nervously and Rosalie – blushing – chose to leave it to her mother. They weren't dating, but it was only a matter of time, and the thought of it made her so happy she could cry. Edward was blushing desperately and making the face a second grader might make at the thought of kissing a girl classmate.

Because she felt so airheaded with happiness, Rosalie burst out laughing.

* * *

The King home was tacky, but Rosalie wouldn't admit it – even to herself. In fact, it bothered her to even think it. She swallowed the thought, ignoring it, burying it into the deepest recesses of her mind.

It was, Rosalie believed, absurdly large too – especially given that the Royce fortune was the product of selling mattresses. There were Greek columns sprouting from the ground, holding up the three-story home that wanted to emulate the White House. There was a fountain in front of the mansion, of a _baby cupid _spitting sparks of backlit water.

"It's like they're trying to compensate for something," Edward said moodily.

Why was he such a _teenager? _

"Shut up, Edward."

"It's true," he mumbled under his breath.

Rosalie was too nervous to care. She felt her palms sweating – and the thought of it made her sweat even more, because she would have to _shake _the Kings. And Royce? Would he bend down to kiss her on the cheek – or should she offer her cheek or her hand?

Oh, fuck.

Carlisle pulled the black, custom-made Mercedes around their cul-the-sac. Rosalie had been dreading the dinner since Elizabeth had announced it; it festered in her stomach the entire day.

And there they were, the Kings. Marylin King wore a revealing gown that had as much sparkles as a second-graders artwork (_Why was she thinking these things?) _that revealed a pair of full breasts that had probably been augmented and hardened – _what the fuck was wrong with her? _– by Seattle's best surgeon. For all of her flaws, _Ironwife _– contrary to tabloid publications - had never visited a surgeon. She had never needed it.

Like her daughter, Ironwife was unbelievably, breathtakingly beautiful.

Mr. King looked exactly like his son did.

If not for the fact that Mr. King had a prominent beer-belly sticking out of his gut, they might have been the same person. Both had ash-blonde hair that fell almost carelessly across their foreheads, and eyes that had the same quality and color as pale blue ice. Both had the same aloof, frigid expression that made Rosalie – and some girls she had overheard – go weak at the knees. They were the kind of features that made Royce King Jr. younger at 50, and that made Royce King III look older at 21.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. _

"Edward, help your sister out of the car," Carlisle instructed in that snappish tone he'd reserved for Edward's ears only.

Both Edward and Rosalie groaned in protest, but Carlisle did not heed their protest. He had turned off the engine and risen out of it; Elizabeth shot Edward a glare and held out her hand to her husband. Rosalie's stomach sunk nastily as Edward shuffled out of the car and stuck his hands into his pockets for the short trek to the trunk. For lack of a better thing to do, she stared at her lap and thought of behind down to hide. She decided against it because it was staring at her lap was the lesser of two evils.

Behind them, Jasper and Maria opened their doors simultaneously. Meanwhile, Carlisle and Elizabeth exchanged pleasantries with the Kings and with Royce, who wore an unfathomable expression as he shook her father's hand. In the meantime, Edward awkwardly struggled to open the titanium chair, muttering a string of curses that made their father covertly shoot him a dirty glance.

Royce looked up; when he saw Edward struggling to release the chair wheels, his expression changed. He looked as though there was something foul-smelling underneath his nose; something that tainted the very air he breathed.

The more he messed around with the contraption, the more Rosalie felt like vanishing into thin air; the more he failed at flattening it out, the more Royce's expression of disgust grew.

Jasper lost his patience and shoved him out of the way. Like the moody, petulant teenager Edward was, he shoved Jasper back with the heel of his palms. The latter stumbled and then smiled at his little brother sardonically. As much as she agreed with his mocking of Edward, she _hated _Jasper's smile at that moment.

"May I, sweetheart?"

Rosalie nodded; her body was aflame with embarrassment. She wrapped her sweaty arms around Jasper's neck, suddenly unbearably conscious of the fact that her useless legs dangled like dead weight. In front of the entrance, Maria was shaking the Kings hands. Mr. King was eyeing her both stupidly – _why was she thinking these things – _and hungrily, raking over Maria's body like a ravenous mutt might eye a rib-eye steak – _why was she thinking these things? _

Maria, like Rosalie, was the epitome of a certain kind of beauty - the type that only came along every once in a while. Green-eyed, fair-skinned and with long hair the color of burnt honey, Maria was stunning and possessed a perfect body. Rosalie had the genes to emulate such a body, but – and now she seemed more conscious of it than ever – her legs were as stitched-up as a handmade sweater. To her credit – although all she could think about at that moment was the fact that her lower back looked like Frankenstein's handy work - Rosalie was the perfect weight.

"You don't look Mexican," was Mr. King's comment.

Jasper's muscles clenched. There were so many stigmas associated to Mexico – but as as much as Rosalie despised Maria, she had come to appreciate the _beauty _of the country her sister-in-law came from.

Maria handled it with incredible grace and flashed Mr. King a strikingly beautiful – and unbelievably cruel smile. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one," she said, charming. "You Americans watch too many re-runs of Speedy Gonzales."

The adults laughed.

"This is my son, Edward," Carlisle said, introducing her sullen brother. As if he'd been raised by truckers and not by a Duchess, Edward stuck only one of his hands out of his pocket. Only those that knew Carlisle best could notice the apprehension in Carlisle's dark blue eyes.

Rosalie turned scarlet – while Edward shook the Kings' hands – when Jasper lifted the chair into the walkway.

"Rose, darlin', good to see you!" Mrs. King said in a voice that sounded so horribly fake – _stop thinking these things _– that even Edward could've detected its falsehood. She kissed Rosalie on both cheeks, leaving them feeling sticky.

Mr. King took her hand in both of his and then petted her on the head – _oh my fucking god, don't think about it now. _She heard Edward mumble something – loudly in protest and would've turned to glare but -

- Royce bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

He smelled strongly of cologne and of Bailey's. The combined sense inundated her senses and made her giddy. He was so masculine.

* * *

Immediately thereafter, Mrs. King offered to give them a tour of the _(oversized) _and tackily decorated property.

Edward broke a horrendous jade-colored miniature statue of Mr. King's first St. Bernard…

…. While Jasper attempted to maneuver the chair across the houses' many nooks and crannies, often aided by Edward who pushed things out of the way and in so doing…

…knocked over a crystal-cut artifact hanging from one of the mansion's many rooms …

…. Rosalie's chair got caught in a Persian rug more often than not, and in animal pelts, which Eddie boy pointed out were most likely acquired illegally…

… And then, when they reached the terrace, had to be lifted up and down a foot-high marble step, by Edward and Jasper, with the latter demonstrating more strength than his puny little body demonstrated …

… while Royce watched awkwardly, hands in his pockets, staring down at his feet…

…. While Mrs. King _simpered_ her apologies to Elizabeth…

… who kept "Oohing" and "Aahing" at the Kings' paraphernalia in the way one might coo at an unfortunate, ugly baby when the parents were watching …

… until they reached the dining room table, whence Edward charged forth and moved one of the throne-like chairs surrounding the dining room table, obviously infuriated …

… Jasper pushed the chair into the space Edward opened and then proceeded to sit in his designated space. Instead of place cards, Mrs. King had put little photo frames. Jasper, by then looking as irritable as Edward – except of course he was much, much more adept at hiding it than Edward – pointed out that his and Maria's where extracted from Hola! (the Spanish-speaking world's tabloid)…

… Royce was seated next to her and every time she tried to make side conversation with him, he made a non-committal grunt. She continued for three sentences every time, hating herself for her inability to converse …

… When they were served a lobster soup where _each of them _were served a large lobster floating in swill… (_stop thinking these things_) …

… When Rosalie smiled at Rose and – when the smile wasn't returned – wondered if there was a piece of lettuce stuck to her teeth…

… When they were served _foie gras_, and Edward decided to embrace his aristocratic upbringing and pointed out that one could tell when foie gras was served long after it ought to have been…

… When the awkward conversation turned away from Maria's father's silver mines in Mexico, which Elizabeth pointed out were the largest producers in the world – after Mr. King having explained that he envisioned Royce going into politics and how he intended to copy Jasper and Edward's upbringing exactly - …

…To Jasper saying, "It's amazing how mattresses are so profitable," because the house was so lavish…

…. An innuendo that Mr. King, evidently inebriated - having consumed an entire bottle of Bailey's – did not notice…

…prompting Edward to ask if Royce shared his father's love of whisky …

… to which Royce responded, 'No,' eyeing Edward coldly and making Rosalie's heart sing _Of course, he doesn't – of course he doesn't drink so much _…

…while they were served each a large salmon with an asparagus salad …

… After they were each served ten oysters sitting on a single lettuce leaf …

… Whence Mr. King, having gone through halfway through his second bottle of whisky …

….asked, "So, Rosaline, is there a cure to whatever it is you have?" …

…whence Edward was restrained from a paroxysm of rage by Jasper, who looked murderous himself and Rosalie, much to her embarrassment, felt her eyes burning with tears that she did shed …

… to which Carlisle coldly replied that there wasn't …

… to which Mr. King said, "Well, who'd have thought, what with all the money y'all have…And all that power. It's a good thing y'all'll be the first to know, since you've got Congress in your pockets…"

…After which point, they were each served large flans…

… And to break the awkward silence that erupted, Mrs. King began asking Maria if she was really 100% Mexican.

* * *

"If I had a dime for every dinner we went to where they served that much food and alcohol," Jasper said angrily to Carlisle as they left at 2:00 that morning. Rosalie's head was pounding. Her misery had left her nerves raw, so she half-yelled snappishly,

"_What? Does it bother you people are generous?" _

"What Jasper means, Rose," Maria said in that soothing voice "is that you can tell when people are so _nouveu riche._"

Elizabeth immediately acted defensive. "It was absolutely lovely of the Kings to invite us tonight."

"There's something obviously illegal going on there, Mother," Edward said eagerly.

"Edward, for _fuck's sake, stop acting like you're the next fucking Ghandi. Jesus fucking Christ!_" Rosalie screeched.

"Jasper had a point, Rose!" Edward yelled back. "I don't think 10 mattress stores across the West Coast and Canada yield enough profit for his wife to have six dissecated parakeets in the gym-side sauna."

"Go join fucking Greenpeace, Edward! I don't give a fuck about six parakeets."

"_Both of you – shut up, and get in the car!" _

"Well, that's the point isn't it?" Rosalie huffed furiously, finally crying and letting all her frustration fall out of her. "If I _could _get into the car, Mother wouldn't need to do these kinds of things to point out to Royce that I won't be a fucking burden."


	9. Chapter 8: Edward

**Finally...enter Isabella Swan. **

* * *

**January 1999 **

**Seattle, WA **

Edward Cullen felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of relief when he zipped his suitcase closed early in the morning the 2nd of January of 1999. The duffel bag was small and he could easily fling it over his shoulder, filled as it was with nothing but geeky t-shirts. The only pair of jeans he owned were the ripped, faded ones. He tiptoed out of his childhood bedroom with a final, melancholic glance as he closed the door behind him. There originally dark blue wall was invisible behind a range of posters he'd amassed during his teens. His bed was a king-sized because his feet had started hanging off the end by his 15th birthday.

The only reason his mother hadn't been able to remove the insulting posters – a mixture of rock-band tributes and pornographic imagery – was that he had purposefully brought a pail of cement. He spent an entire night making sure that the cement would keep them glued to the walls by creating cement frames around them. Short of bringing in a bulldozer, there was nothing Elizabeth had been able to do to tear them down.

He wished he hadn't put them up, in the same way that he wished he hadn't rejected guitar lessons...in the same way that he wished he hadn't filled condoms with confetti and inflated them so that they could decorate the religious Ed classroom. Those had been the actions of a teenager that hadn't known how to explain to himself – much less express – the turmoil he felt inside. Now they were a testament to immaturity that he wished to put behind him.

Of course, no matter what he did, his family would find a way of emphasizing that he was never quite as good as he ought to be. His every word and action was quickly discarded; not a moment was wasted in pointing out that a round peg in a world made for square ones. So he stopped trying to be a square peg and emphasized to everybody around him that he was as round as Rolly Polly Oly.

The ideologically-driven, geeky shirts were a testament to his efforts …

… but he believed in what the shirts said halfheartedly (unless the shirts were of Star Trek, in which case…he did genuinely _love _Spock).

Sighing, he made his way quietly down the hallway, towards Rosalie's room. He and Rosalie had rooms that were smaller than Jasper's, who now shared his with his wife. The door's creaking didn't wake her. His little sister slept on, undisturbed, an arm thrown over her head. The chair was parked in front of the window, a good distance from the bed where she slept. Around the bed were some grips and handles that Edward knew Rosalie didn't know how to use. This fact infuriated him now as much as it did when he was a teenager. He still believed that it was an elaborate ruse to keep her under their thumb.

She kept the curtains open; the snow falling outside gave them a great deal of illumination.

He shook her by the shoulder. "Rose?"

She opened her eyes – violet-colored and the shape and size of saucers. Puffy and swollen, he realized, from crying. It took her a moment to compose herself. Then, she pulled herself up by the arms. Her legs wouldn't move her, and she had to keep one propped against the mattress for leverage.

"Eddie?"

Although he'd never in a million years express it – he didn't know how, for one – Rosalie filled him with a desire to protect. Even as a little girl, he'd struck her as fragile and delicate and not because she'd spent most of their childhood bedridden, surgery after surgery and wheelchair-bound. Rosalie was his little sister, and even as a little boy, he'd felt protective of her. As she'd grown, the protectiveness had been overshadowed by dislike of her snootiness and secret admiration for her fortitude.

They say we covet and admire that which we can never have. However, the Royce dinner fiasco had made it evident how vulnerable she was – and so that particular Christmas, he had felt nothing but protectiveness over his little sister.

"I'm leaving," he whispered quietly, awkwardly. He gave her a rueful smile, not quite knowing what to say next.

She smiled back, showing him one of those genuine, sweet smiles. It was the type of smile that made Edward see – for a brief minute – what all the fuss was about. Rosalie really was breathtaking, and when she smiled like that, she looked like an angel. An angel that was his to protect. From their parents' machinations, if need be.

"As much as I hate to admit it," she said playfully, "I'll actually miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, pipsqueak," he grinned back. He wrapped his arms around her, and she gave him a one-armed hug, kissing him on the cheek. When they parted, he was blushing furiously. She rolled her eyes but seemed otherwise amused.

"I'll see you in – erm, Spring Break, erm…You know …assuming nothing else comes up."

"Assuming you don't go off to save the whales in Antarctica," she said. Her voice was empty of malice, only playfulness.

"There's only penguins there, pea-brain." He pulled the covers over her upright shoulders. She rolled her eyes but smiled at him again.

Awkwardly, he kissed the top of her head. Uncomfortable with their sudden display of affection – an undoubtedly British attitude of his , he fled out of the room.

For a second, he considered going to Jasper's room to say goodbye – but that would've been unbearably awkward even if Jasper didn't have a wife. People said – and by that he meant Rosalie's nanny – that Jasper came back different from the Gulf War. As for Edward - he was eleven when Jasper enlisted and had few, vague recollections of his brother. He couldn't be sure if the recollections were figments of his imagination, products of wishful thinking on his part - or actual memories. In any case, there wouldn't be much to say.

There wouldn't be a hug, but a handshake. Jasper would give him advice that was both useful and hurtful because there was always a playfully taunting edge to their every interaction. Only Rosalie saw the nicer, sweet side to Jasper – the object of what little affection Lieutenant Cullen was capable of. Had he lived in close proximity to a functional marriage, Edward would have found something about the lack of closeness between Maria and Jasper odd. He didn't. There wasn't any doubt in Edward's head about the fact that they did have a very intense, kinky carnal relationship – he had traumatizing memories of witnessing something he should never have seen.

The disgust and urge to vomit that just _thinking _about it made his decision for him. He didn't even glance towards Jasper's bedroom.

He strut down the grand, marble staircase, hair uncombed, in a UChicago hoodie. It was 4:30 in the morning and the only thing propelling him forward was that sense of adrenaline that came when one was about to fly.

When he reached the ground floor, he was filled with melancholly. For all of their pretend-rivalry and squabbling, he and Rosalie did have nice bonding moments from time to time.

Both Elizabeth and Carlisle were sitting in the kitchen's anteroom when he came in. They were squabbling – as they often did. Elizabeth held a cup of warm water in her hands. Coffee was too commonplace for the Duchess of Haleshire. God forbid she drink tea and disrupt her beauty sleep, too. Edward thought of listening in. Instead, he dropped his duffel and pushed his weight against the revolving door.

"I think Royce might be a suitable match and I don't want you to – "

"Elizabeth, his father uses the mattress business to _launder _money he makes filming pornographic films which isn't only illegal but morally repulsive. I'm not going to stop the FBI investigation because you think this boy – a wretched boy, I might add - is interested in Rosalie."

Edward smiled. Carlisle was a genuinely _good _man, and if he disagreed with most of his father's lifestyle, Edward was proud to be his son. He acted only because he believed in the inherent good of his actions, not thinking of their political repercussions or perks

"I don't want you to spoil this for her, Carlisle," Elizabeth said quietly, her voice uncharacteristically serious – not because Elizabeth was a jokester, but because she concerned herself with the most frivolous _shit._

"King isn't interested in her," Edward interjected, coming into the kitchen. Just thinking of Elizabeth's frivolity made him angry.

As if to justify his anger, Elizabeth raked his attire with her eyes and met his stare disapprovingly. She ignored his earlier comment, because she found the matter of his attire _so much more_ pressing than forcing her daughter to marry a scoundrel. Then she said tiredly,

"Edward, love, you do realize you'll be at a public space. You can't go out looking like you're homeless."

"It's 4:30 in the morning," Edward sneered. "No one cares."

Even at 4:30 in the morning, _Ironwife _looked good, wearing a white, silk robe as if it were a dress, hair in an impeccable ponytail.

"Don't snap at your mother," Carlisle snarled – just seconds before Elizabeth shot 'The Look' at Carlisle.

It wasn't 'The Look' in the traditional sense of the word – not 'The Look' as he understood it with his siblings, anyway. It was a Look Edward had identified as a young child; a look that said, _Carlisle, control your offspring _in a way words could not.

Jasper had told him countless time – in that cruelly mocking way of Jasper's – that this belief that Elizabeth only used that Look when Edward was concerned was imaginary. Jasper said that he too, had been on the receiving end while he was a teenager and that Edward had a bad case of Weltschmerz … (for someone who made fun of Edward's German Lit classes, Jasper was pretty well-versed in German philosophy) … and ego-centrism.

Edward had his doubts.

"I wasn't snapping," he mumbled. "Sorry, Mother."

Elizabeth gave him an unfathomable smile. They both sipped their tea in silence while he made himself some instant coffee and then drank it. His flight would leave in four hours but there wouldn't be much activity this early. Once he'd poured his coffee into a thermos, Elizabeth rose. She wrapped her arms around her body.

"Are you all packed, darling?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes."

"You have everything, love? Didn't forget anything? Passport, wallet …?"

"Yes, Mom."

Other kids used Mommy. The Cullen children used Mom as a term of endearing and Mother for everyday use.

Silently, they walked out of the kitchen. Edward lifted his light duffel from the ground. When they reached the doorstep, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him. He was so much taller than she. She pressed her hand against his cheek – roughened by his stubble.

"Behave and study hard," she said gently. There were tears welling in her violet colored eyes – and suddenly, Edward was filled with rare but precious love for his mother. "I'll miss you, darling. I love you."

* * *

When they reached the interstate, Carlisle finally started to talk. Edward wished he hadn't started drinking his coffee; his breath stank and he was having a hard time dozing off because of the caffeine in his system.

"I didn't tell your mother, but I offered to pick up chief Swan's daughter at the airport. Only, I'm rather ashamed. I don't know how long this girl has been waiting in the airport. I deal with rogue diplomats and stubborn congressmen on a daily basis and yet this girl managed to hold her ground and not tell me when her flight would come in."

Carlisle chuckled. "I think she fabricated her flight schedule only after she learned of yours to keep me from driving back and forth."

"That's pretty decent of her," Edward commented.

He liked Chief Swan because he struck her as the only member of the town of Forks that wasn't a sycophantic gold-digger. He was quiet and understated, doing his job without expecting recognition. And it genuinely upset Edward that there wasn't proper coverage for somebody that had served his town for nearly two decades. After the Christmas benefit for the county's general hospital they hosted, Carlisle said the girl was flying in to take care of him.

"Did they figure out what happened to Chief Swan?"

Carlisle sighed; the gesture made him look a decade older.

"It's Primary-Progressive Multiple Sclerosis - a very aggressive form of a neurological disease that attacks the central nervous system. Charlie's had symptoms for years but you know how he is. He suffered in silence until he woke up a couple of weeks ago virtually immobile. It was his first serious exacerbation, although he had one a couple of months ago. "

Edward remembered that his father had once told him he'd wanted to study medicine. His "cousin" – technically speaking, of course, because he'd been twenty years his senior at the time – WJC, then president, had refused. As it had happened for the past 16 generations, the Cullen family had found itself with a single heir every generation – and WJC had wanted the family to continue into posterity. He felt that Carlisle as a doctor wouldn't have helped matters.

And that was that.

"Did you ever rebel against – against your cousin's wishes - so that you - to become a doctor?"

Edward half blurted it out. The truce they had made about Edward studying Economics had been made so recently it was still a tremendously delicate topic. Carlisle's features turned into a controlled, unreadable mask. It wasn't indifference his father emanated.

Carlisle said, "I suppose it is normal for the young to wish to find their own path."

Fuck his father's diplomatic, politic answers. His career had been as long as Jasper's life, and he had never set a foot wrong – never said anything even vaguely incriminating. The only people that could misinterpret what he said were lousy publications and tabloids.

Edward was three years into University and hadn't found passion in anything he did - not in the way his father felt passionately about medicine. Even after thirty years of a career in government and politics, Carlisle still read medical books on his rare spare time. He took active interest in the medical boards he was a trustee and patron of. He was inordinately busy and yet found spare time to keep up with a field that was unrelated to what Carlisle had studied or done. Edward knew he didn't feel like that about anything.

In his first semesters of school he'd taken a wide range of classes. The less the class had to do with government or politics, the better. He didn't take any science; he wasn't _bad _at it all and actually understood it enough to wear shirts making science jokes. He just didn't feel passionate about mitochondria or electrons. He took German Romanticism classes and Arabic for the same reason he had detached toilet seats at Eton and glued them to the Headmaster's historic chair.

He was trying to prove a point. He was trying to declare to his parents and Jasper – a cruel parental figure – that he wasn't going to follow their path. His choice of classes and bohemian trips were no different from his rebellious teenage antics. On some instinctual level beyond his intellectual comprehension, Edward knew he didn't fit in.

Edward was Carlisle's spitting image – and Carlisle was as handsome as could be – but his _coloring _was all wrong. His siblings were blonde. Jasper resembled the Earl of Masen – their grandfather – and Rosalie, their mother. He didn't set much stock by the physical indications of his differences, because Elizabeth treated them similarly …

… and at some point, Edward had accepted the additional harshness where he was concerned was because he was purposefully difficult. In his rare, nice conversations with Rose, he discovered that Elizabeth's sweetness also came out in random bursts. His sister, too, had woken up to Elizabeth's fingers on their face. Edward had woken up to a silent, tender kiss on the forehead every now and then. The tenderness vanished so quickly the moment became as difficult to grasp as fog.

Like that morning.

* * *

Edward and Carlisle decide to wait out his boarding time in a Starbucks coffeehouse. It was located in a fairly strategic location, and Carlisle hoped to identify the girl by sitting there. People stared at them as they passed. Some stared - as if to convince themselves that Carlisle Cullen was _really _drinking coffee at a Seattle airport at 6:00 AM and that it wasn't a hallucination.

"I wonder what she looks like. I never met Chief Swan's ex-wife and well, he's a couple of years younger than I. We probably didn't cross paths while I was home for the summer."

"You don't even know what she looks like?" Edward said moodily.

"No, Edward, I don't," Carlisle retorted. "Now go get your damn muffin."

The governor-to-be took out a 10 dollar bill from his wallet. Feeling like a reprimanded child, Edward walked back into the store to line up and wait for the sleep-deprived, drowsy clerk to take his order. There was a girl waiting in line, her back to him such that he could only see her mahogany ponytail falling down past her chest.

The man in front of the pair seemed to possess an energy that no normal human did at the crack of dawn. Yelling hysterically into his phone – a stock-broker, Edward deduced from his hysterical ramblings – he ignored the pair behind him and everybody around him.

The girl reached out to pay for her coffee by dropping what Edward assumed was a shitload of pennies into the clerk's hand. The clerk handed her a large cup of orange juice, when the man spun round. Of a portly build, he hit her stomach with his black briefcase and the girl stumbled backwards, stepping on Edward's foot and then tripping on it, sending the cup's contents soaring into the air…

… And her body was rammed against the chest and arms of Edward Cullen, soaked in orange juice.

His arms caught her before her head could hit the floor, but he almost fell with her. She was inches from the floor, and was being kept from slamming into it because his arms were cushioning her fall. The brown-eyed girl stared up at him, cheeks aflame with color, eyelashes batting in surprise. Milliseconds later, the man's leather shoes slipped on the orange juice coating the floor, collapsing on top of Edward. Before he could help it, he fell.

Bracing both of his arms against the floor, he tried to keep his weight off her...

...but couldn't keep the tip of his nose from touching hers, or his eyes from looking deeply into hers ...

... and finding honey-hues in the chocolate-colored irises.


	10. Chapter 9: Edward

_Edward and Carlisle _decided_ to wait out his boarding time in a Starbucks coffeehouse. It was located in a fairly strategic location, and Carlisle hoped to identify the girl by sitting there. People stared at them as they passed. Some stared - as if to convince themselves that Carlisle Cullen was really drinking coffee at a Seattle airport at 6:00 AM and that it wasn't a hallucination._

_"I wonder what she looks like. I never met Chief Swan's ex-wife and well, he's a couple of years younger than I. We probably didn't cross paths while I was home for the summer."_

_"You don't even know what she looks like?" Edward said moodily._

_"No, Edward, I don't," Carlisle retorted. "Now go get your damn muffin."_

_The governor-to-be took out a 10 dollar bill from his wallet. Feeling like a reprimanded child, Edward walked back into the store to line up and wait for the sleep-deprived, drowsy clerk to take his order. There was a girl waiting in line, her back to him such that he could only see her mahogany ponytail falling down past her chest._

_The man in front of the pair seemed to possess an energy that no normal human did at the crack of dawn. Yelling hysterically into his phone – a stock-broker, Edward deduced from his hysterical ramblings – he ignored the pair behind him and everybody around him._

_The girl reached out to pay for her coffee by dropping what Edward assumed was a shitload of pennies into the clerk's hand. The clerk handed her a large cup of orange juice, when the man spun round. Of a portly build, he hit her stomach with his black briefcase and the girl stumbled backwards, stepping on Edward's foot and then tripping on it, sending the cup's contents soaring into the air…_

_… And her body was rammed against the chest and arms of Edward Cullen, soaked in orange juice._

_His arms caught her before her head could hit the floor, but he almost fell with her. She was inches from the floor, and was being kept from slamming into it because his arms were cushioning her fall. The brown-eyed girl stared up at him, cheeks aflame with color, eyelashes batting in surprise. Milliseconds later, the man's leather shoes slipped on the orange juice coating the floor, collapsing on top of Edward. Before he could help it, he fell._

_Bracing both of his arms against the floor, he tried to keep his weight off her..._

_...but couldn't keep the tip of his nose from touching hers, or his eyes from looking deeply into hers ..._

_... and finding honey-hues in the chocolate-colored irises._

Braced above her – the perpetrator of his injury- , with their noses touching, he'd made the awkward comment:

"You smell like orange juice."

To which she replied, in a chopped voice he found altogether sassy with an undercurrent of humor,

"I should think so - I spilled it all over myself."

His inner rogue chose to make an appearance for the first time in 21 years. Very wolfishly, gingerly brushing the tip of his nose against hers, he said,

"It smells intoxicating."

Her big, doe-like eyes widened in surprise as she attempted to understand what kind of person thought processed orange juice would be an aphrodisiac. A heartbeat later, her bony knee had found his crotch with alarming, military precision. The air had left his lungs in a rush; the blow deprived his arms of their strength. He collapsed against her almost immediately. Ignoring his cry of pain, and the neurotic man's nasal complaints, the girl tried to worm her way out of the trap of his arms.

He was paralyzed by the pain of the blow, trying desperately to keep his already burning eyes from watering.

"Get off me!" she cried angrily. At this point, her chest happened to coincide right with his eyes; he found that his head was right between both her perky, small breasts. In spite of the pain, he felt a crooked, roguish grin of idiocy spread across his face at his blessed position.

"Ugh!"

The girl, having noticed, gave him another kick. This time, the tip of her faded, worn-out, man Hush Puppies met the Cullen crown jewels.

"What _the hell _is wrong with you?" he choked out through his tears of pain. His aristocratic upbringing aside, he managed to kneel and cup his crotch with his hand. Through his watery eyes, he couldn't see anything. The girl brought out her legs from under his and was getting to her feet.

"There's nothing wrong with me, damn kids, should look where they go!" the nasal man cried out. He had just managed to get to his feet. "I'm going to get fucking McDonald's coffee!" he yelled at the clerk.

As the man stormed out, Edward managed to get to his feet. The girl, already on her feet, had bent down to retrieve her large satchel. A little ball had rolled out of the satchel to Edward's feet, and he picked it up. Pinching it between his forefinger and thumb, he studied it and realized it was a vacant hazelnut shell covered in golden spray paint.

He handed it over to her. She snatched it out of his hand and stuffed into her back pocket.

"Thank you," she muttered. Her voice was surprisingly quiet voice for someone who'd just assaulted his balls with a pair of sturdy hiking shoes.

"Look, sweetheart," he said irritably. "I saved you from a concussion and the ensuing delay from going wherever it is you're going. So I'd be a little thankful if I were you."

Speaking of his nuts, he resisted the unbearable need to cup his crotch as if to soothe them.

"I am terribly sorry," she said in deadpan.

She spared him a single, demure glance – peeking over a set of thick, black eyelashes –, slung her satchel over her shoulder and spun on her heel.

Again, the soles of her shoes gave a horrid screech of friction before she tumbled backwards. His arms jutted forward as if of their own accord; he caught her.

Momentarily taken aback, he stared. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent; he could see faint lines of blue across her forehead. It wasn't something he would have ordinarily found attractive, but in this girl created an eerily pretty pallor. The hollows under her cheeks had turned bright red.

Wolfishly, he said,

"Are you sorry now?"

He couldn't help the wicked, lopsided grin that spread across his face.

"No, but I _am_ trying to think of ways to hit your balls again," she said, disgust coloring her words. "Now could you please help me up?"

Moodily, he helped her on to her feet and only let go of her elbow once she was steadily on them. He was suddenly thankful his mother had ingrained unto his psyche the importance of not holding one's crotch in public. The girl jerked her elbow free from his hand and turned to the clerk.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said. "Do you need help mopping up?"

What kind of person offered to do that?

Taken aback, the clerk shook his head. Then, the girl offered him a smile so pretty he wouldn't have thought her capable of producing it. Like she was putting effort into making the clerk feel genuinely appreciated, as if to genuinely convince him of her apology.

When she turned towards him, her face was the one wore when looking at earthworms or when one was offered snails.

"Thank you _for catching him,_" she said, giving him a tight, falsely saccharine smile. Nothing like she gave the clerk. She spun on her heel.

As if on its own accord, he trapped her wrist with his hand. She could feel every little bone under the pads of his fingers.

"Look, I'm sorry," he'd said. "But I think I genuinely deserve that you apologize for – "

She wrenched it free as if his larger hand burned, but this time gave him a very intense glance, looking at him straight in the eyes and searching them. Her next words negated that the intensity of her stare was outside the norm.

"I don't normally kick people down – erm, there," she said sheepishly. "So I'm sorry, too."

There was something about the shape of her eyes and the thickness of her lashes that made them appear to be the size of saucers. She wasn't looking directly at him, just peeking through her lashes. Before he could react, she had slung her bag over her shoulder and walked past Carlisle in the general direction of the airport exit.

He didn't get to follow her with his eyes, because Carlisle had just come before him. In his hand, he held an Egg McMuffin and wore the delighted expression of a child that had found a hidden stash of candy.

"Your Mother has never allowed me to have these in her presence," he said happily. "I smelled an opportunity."

* * *

"Didn't your mother teach you not to hold your crutch in public?"

The voice was sultry but thick with amusement. Groggily, Edward opened his eyes. He had closed them the second he reached his (aisle) seat, but hadn't been able to close them because the person beside him kept getting up to pee.

A person, Edward suddenly realized, that was _very _attractive – and a person he'd seen before a number of times. In his sleep-deprived, orange-juice covered state, he couldn't for the life of him discern where.

"I was just kicked in the nuts," he said, throwing two decades of Elizabeth's efforts out the window. The girl bit her lip to keep from laughing, and nodded slowly as if to say, "If you say so." She took a fat, bible-sized copy of _Vogue _out of the flap before her and began to leaf through the pages.

Now that his eyes were open, he was able to study the woman beside him. She was a strawberry blonde with big blue eyes and sharp, aquiline features. Even clad in jeans, it was obvious her legs were great. Big-chested, leggy, blue-eyed…He was sure she'd seen her somewhere.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

She put down her copy of Vogue and gave him a funny smile with an unfathomable quality; like she was amused by some secret joke. Edward had turned scarlet, suddenly remembering _exactly _why Tanya was so well known to him. She'd been the featured girl in one of Edward's very first _Playboys_. Of their own accord, his eyes flew straight to her chest.

She laughed and held out her hand.

"Tanya Aleksandrov," she said. There was something off-putting about her smile; the smile that taunted him, as if she knew something he didn't.

The more he looked at Tanya's flawless face, the more he realized he knew her from someplace else. Still shaking her hand, he wreaked his brains to peg where from.

"Oh, that's right," he said, suddenly recalling a tidbit of information. "From the Well-Wishing charity, am I right?"

Last January, he'd seen her at some sort of charity event. When he pointed out to one of his frat boys that she'd been the chick in Playboy, he made the comment about the charity.

"Wishing Well," she corrected him. The family had attended some benefit or other two or three Christmas ago. "I've been in PR for R.R Donnelly in Chicago since last September."

As much as he fought against them, that haughty political gene in him kicked in, as it did every time he was in a situation such as this. He sat up straight, suddenly business-like. His legs were too long for crossing one leg over the other, but that was his first impulse.

"And what exactly does R.R Donnelly do?"

While she explained to him exactly what they did, very informally because she bemoaned her job and made fun of some executives, the stewardess came along to offer drinks. Tanya ordered scotch on the rocks.

"It's not even nine," he pointed out in shock. By the disparaging look the stewardess was giving Tanya, it was evident she agreed.

"What, too scared to drink, Cullen?" she taunted.

Squeakily, he said, "No, of course not! I just think it's in poor taste to drink at 8:30 in the – "

With a smile, she put four of her fingers on his lips, leaning over him. She was so close he could smell the perfume on her neck, and the scent of coconut in her hair. Dizzied by the scent, he found it hard to think. Was she coming on to him?

"He'll be having the same," she said sultrily.

The stewardess gave him a pointed look, and Tanya one of extreme disapproval. "Can I see an ID, sir?"

"I'm in college!" Edward said indignantly.

Tanya laughed while Edward fumbled for his ID in the pocket of his jeans. The stewardess studied it for a moment, before handing it back to Edward, unconvinced.

As she poured the scotch, she said as if to convince him, "It does cost an extra 7 dollars."

"It's all on me," Tanya said sultrily.

* * *

**March 2014 **

**Richmond, Virginia **

"You can still back out, you know," Emmett said.

Emmett had used the exact same phrase, seven years earlier, before Edward made his divorce from _her _official. Edward picked Emmett to be the divorce lawyer because he'd been weaker and putty in her hands: a _boy. _Had he picked Jasper to represent him personally, _she _would have been crushed like an insect under the Cullen legal machine. Instead, he picked the wiser, gentler, blunter Emmett.

All but six hours after signing his divorce papers, Edward was fucking Bella in the kitchen counter. The product of that encounter was waiting, dressed like a flower girl, in waiting in the church.

The other was… gone. Just thinking about this latter part made his heart constrict painfully, as if an iron fist were purposefully crushing it. He felt it acutely still, a punch to the stomach, a kick in the nuts. Desperately, he hoped distance and time would heal his wounds. Deep down, he knew nothing would heal the pain. It never really went away, and it would continue clawing at him and destroying everything in its wake.

If it weren't for his loss, he wouldn't have become a slightly neurotic despot. He wouldn't spend his days complaining of back aches, of knee aches, of migraines. He wouldn't be a closeted alcoholic.

He would probably not be marrying another woman, either.

"I'm still moving to Germany, Emmett," he said, a hint of cruel sarcasm in his voice. A couple of weeks earlier, Jasper had granted Edward the post of Ambassador in Germany – as a personal favor of sorts. Carlisle was furious, but Congress had rectified the appointment already. Edward hoped that physical distance would do what alcohol and a frequently visited bachelor pad would do to his wounds – even though at this point,

"You know what I'm talking about," Emmett said, containing back his anger. He gestured around him. They were in a limousine, on the way to Edward's wedding. As they spoke, guests were lining up the oldest church in Virginia, Tanya was putting the finish touches on her bridal attire, and Emmett had the _damn rings in his pocket. _

"I do know," Edward said silently, without meeting his brother-in-law's eye.

Emmett and Rosalie had been actively lobbying against the marriage since he'd announced his intentions in November. The pair had employed a range of different techniques. He was amused and annoyed at the fact that they were still trying to keep him from marrying Tanya today – when the ceremony was a half hour from taking place.

As if to steel his resolve, they entered the thicket of photographers gathered around the church. A couple of weeks ago, he read that _she _was dating a photographer – or so People Magazine said, anyway. He wondered if said photographer was amongst the lice outside the window, clamoring for a statement. They were yelling "Senator! Senator!" and they were flashing light-bulbs. The car was armored, bullet-proof, and the windows were dark-tinted. He could only hear a faint buzz, like a bee.

If _she_ was with a fucking photographer, then he could do whatever the fuck he pleased, too – including marrying Tanya. It would feel strangely, deliciously satisfying – like pissing on her.

With a twisted smile – nothing like the lopsided grin he was so notorious for once upon a time – he said, "I'm doing this, Emmett."

The number of photographers thinned, indicating that they were nearing the church. Security was tighter. The driver was about to park the limousine in front of the Church's plaza.

In what seemed like a desperate move, Emmett asked unflinchingly,

"Do you love her?"

"What the hell, Emmett?"

The driver stopped the car.

"It's a simple question," Emmett said. "Do you love her or do you not?"

Edward was left speechless. Before he could blubber something stupid, though, as he knew he would, he opened the car door. He was inclined to slam it behind him as to hit Emmett, who seemed torn between chuckling and crying – but he didn't want to add more scandal to this wedding by having a bloodied best man.

No sooner had he stood upright than she came spiraling towards him out of the church. Instinctively, he knelt down and opened his arms. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up.

She was getting so _big. _

"_Daddy, _please, please pretty please, don't marry a _horse_!"

Her little arms wrapped around his neck so tightly that they would've left him breathless had his words not done it already. After a second or two of patting her back very gently, he had collected his thoughts. He put some distance between them so that he was looking at her face.

While he'd initially begrudged she didn't have _her _eyes, now he thanked God every day for the fact that she didn't. It was becoming almost painful to look at his daughter because she was identical to Bella in every way. The shape of the nose, the shape of the mouth, the color of her hair, the texture… And while his eyes were green, like his, they had that same inquisitive, doe-like quality that made them look like they were all-knowing and defenseless at the same time.

While he had a fairly good inkling of what she'd heard, he could not discard the possibility that she was genuinely scared he was about to marry a barnyard animal.

"Sweetheart, what exactly do you mean?"

A tear slipped down her big, green eyes and slid down her cheek. "I don't want you to have baby ponies for kids."

He laughed. It felt odd coming out of his body, oddly carefree.

"No, Bee, love, I promise I'm not marrying a _horse._" He kissed the tip of her nose. She seemed much calmer, so he set her down with a kiss to her forehead.

"You _are _marrying a _whore, _though," his son said emphatically. Once he said it, he seemed giddy at his cheek and wearing a self-satisfied smile.

EJ had trailed after his sister and had been watching the entire exchange sulkily, his bright blue eyes ablaze. 12-year-old EJ still hadn't hit his growth spurt and wasn't his height still. A couple of weeks ago, though, pimples had started popping up around his forehead. He had both his hands in his pockets and he had un-tucked his shirt. His tie was hanging from his shoulder.

Edward lost his patience almost immediately. He'd tried the patience route, but his son was driving him _fucking insane. _Everybody kept on saying it was karma, because he'd been so difficult himself, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"EJ, goddamit!" he barked. "For fuck's sake, don't poison your little sister's head like that!"

EJ seemed to have lost his nerve, and was looking sideways as if planning for an escape – but he held his ground.

"You _just _said _fuck," _he pointed out cockily.

Edward sighed, but it sounded more like a bull's huff of irritation. He contained it for his daughter, his mother's namesake, who was clearly in a fragile emotional state.

"Darling, go look for Aunt Rose, will you?"

With a scared nod, eyes wide, she toddled off towards were Rosalie was, watching the exchange from the church's antechamber. Her eyes were disapproving. Every time she let go of him, he felt as if something was being ripped out of him.

Once she was out of sight, he turned to his only son. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he summoned all the patience he could muster. He tried to picture what EJ was feeling – tried to picture himself in EJ's situation. It was far more difficult than it ought to have been. After all, Edward was in a strikingly similar situation to EJ. He was the odd child out. But Tanya, like Elizabeth had been to Edward, had been so _nice. _

"Look, EJ," he said, strained but patient. "Tanya is a very special person for me and – "

"She _is_ your whore!" he cried petulantly, his voice cracking – although Edward didn't know if it was puberty or emotion. "You know she is! _Bella _said so!"

Time and time again, Edward was struck by how his son used the word _Bella_ the way other kids used the word _Mom_. Even know, when the word worked like a detonator to all sorts of violent emotions beyond all restraint, he couldn't help it.

Edward snapped, throwing all of his restraint out the fucking window. EJ knew it too, the little brat.

"Well, you know, EJ, I don't give a rat's _ass _what that – that _woman_ says or does or fucking says!" he hissed. EJ's nostrils flared, clearly energized by the yell.

His family had suddenly become aware of the commotion; Carlisle and Elizabeth were coming out of the church, both apparently embarrassed and evidently furious. Emmett grabbed him by the shoulder, somewhat brusquely. Edward shoved him aside, but had calmed down somewhat.

"If you pull anything today, Edward," he said seriously, looking straight into his son's eyes, "there will be hell to pay."

Undaunted, EJ looked at him defiantly. "And what if I don't do what you say?"

He was so furious he didn't notice the bride's limousine pulling up behind him.

"You'll embarrass yourself, me – and the rest of the family by extension," Edward said, still struggling to restrain his anger. It was the right card to play; EJ's only loyalty was to his father's family, because it was the only family he knew.

EJ looked up at him seriously, his eyes devoid of teenaged fury. It seemed a more controlled anger, the type that grew into resentment. EJ seemed older beyond his years.

Besides them, Tanya had emerged from the car. Edward sighed in defeat, wishing that he could turn back time and tell his 24-year-old self to get a vasectomy.

"Is something the matter?" she asked. He'd gotten a full look at his bride – and felt nothing but the cold satisfaction that came with _revenge_. He wasn't upset that this was supposed to be bad luck; he was entering _this _marriage with none of the naiveté that had prompted him to enter the last one. Tanya, in turn, look devastated. Her blue eyes looked heartbroken.

"_You _are," EJ spat hatefully at Tanya . He gave Edward a pointed look, but then scurried off to the church at Edward's lack of sympathy. Rose, with his daughter in his lap, started tucking in EJ's shirt and straightening his tie.

Tanya looked like a freshly kicked puppy. Kate, her sister – whom Edward had already slept with – looked livid.

"Edward," she said weakly. Her eyes were filling with tears.

"Look," he said, holding back his irritation at this entire situation. He didn't want to comfort Tanya, if only because it made him uncomfortable. Thus, his voice had the wary tone of one trying to appease a rabid beast.

"I'll straighten him out, I promise. We'll still get married."

Her eyes were starting to cloud with anger. _At his emotional detachment, _she would say. Before he could be reprimanded, he edged closer. After licking the underside of her chin, said, in a sultry, seductive voice, "And you'll get the fuck of your life, tonight."

And he kept his word.


	11. Chapter 10: Edward

**January 3****rd****, 1999**

**Chicago, IL **

Edward met his friends the night he came back. He _knew _his father didn't have "J. Edgar Hoover's lackeys" – as Rosalie called them – tailing him because he hadn't lost his shit at his circle of friends. During freshman year, he'd started hanging out with a neo-Bolshevik, physics student called Alistair (that was his last name; his actual name was unknown to all but his girlfriend, Makenna). Alistair had a wide range of friends that advocated for the policies of the Green Party and despised everything Carlisle Cullen represented. Unsurprisingly, Edward kept his father's identity secret in the same way someone with AIDS would have in the 80s. When he finally confessed it to Alistair – for fear that he would eventually find out -, Alistair promised to take Edward under his wing with a passion.

Edward had been inclined to hang out with Alistair because he had the conviction Edward lacked. Alistair incited all of Edward's fears about his father; he gave him sordid details Edward didn't know. However, he had started to grow increasingly uncomfortable with Alistair and his gangs, where he'd only felt like a bystander. As if to prove why, Alistair greeted him with a,

"How was everything in the gilded cage?"

Three years ago, he would've gone on a rant about how his father spent tax dollars on the Hawaiian apartment. It would've been, however, a massive lie. Besides, lately, he was starting to find Alistair's way of speaking _fucking weird. _

"Hell," he said, with a long-suffering sigh, but didn't elaborate. Last semester left the bar (like the emasculated girl he was), when Alistair insinuated his father embezzled from the federal treasury. Since then, the Cullen-bashing that had fueled most of his friendship with them had come to a grinding halt.

He sat down in the barstool besides Makenna, Alistair's girlfriend, and ordered tequila. Last semester, the group dynamic had changed. He was no longer the center of attention, as he'd stopped providing intimate details of the lives of the 1%. Instead, he'd become a fixture, a shadow that said nothing but whose presence was accepted. Edward didn't say anything, and Alistair and the gang were long past hungrily prying information out of him.

Makenna was _ugly, _Edward thought, as he sipped his tequila and rubbed his fingertip against the salt on the glass rim. She had big, frizzy hair of a poodle-like texture that never looked brushed; she was fat and broad-shouldered, and her large breasts hung unsupported from laced bras.

"What, the sister-in-law didn't give you enough high quality tequila?" Makenna asked, good-natured. Edward forced out a laugh. Lately, he was starting to detect an undercurrent of true, dangerous resentment in their voices. He wasn't going to sell out his father to these fuckers.

This friendship started after he ditched his economics courses, which his father had virtually selected for him. Before that, he'd hung out with some boys he knew from holidays in the Hamptons. One of them had even been his Middle School partner-in-crime, and had been his liaison with his weed supplier.

In spite of the fact that he'd sat in that same barstool, next to the (_ugly_) Makenna, for countless evenings, Makenna knew next to nothing of his life. Nobody really did. Some of his old prep-school friends knew that his brother was married to Maria – happily, for all they knew -; they knew that he had a "_sick" _sister; and that he _hated _his mother's guts.

Nobody knew Maria made Jasper miserable, and that Edward hated her for it. Nobody knew that Edward despised that Rosalie's existence was hidden from the press – and he'd felt horribly uncomfortable telling these people that. All the information he shared was strikingly impersonal. And after this winter break, he wanted to _share _the personal – how he hated Royce, the Playboy bunny he'd met, and the doe-eyed girl with the orange juice.

That night, he didn't contribute _anything _to the conversation.

* * *

**January 14****th****, 1999**

**Chicago, IL **

For about a week and a half, Edward kept Tanya's card in the back pocket of his jeans but didn't actually dial the number written on it.

All in all, they'd had three martinis each. Tanya discussed a number of things, including bemoaning her boss. She ended up discovering that he was a virgin, and found it hilarious – but he'd been quick to defensively point out that he'd hooked up with 23 girls since he was 12. He still couldn't believe that she had given it to him, with a "_call me_" and a peck on the cheek. She disappeared thereafter, like the doe-eyed, orange juice girl.

While the Tanya situation was at the forefront of his mind, it was another encounter that haunted him. There was little to say about the first girl he tried to hit on - for the first time in 21 years of life, without any evident success. What was there to say? _I fell on top of some girl? _His infrequent whining about Tanya was making him sound feminine _enough. _Edward was already puny, his voice was high-pitched, and he was all bone, no muscle. By all means, he ought to have been wet-dreaming about Tanya. Instead, his mind kept going back to the doe-eyed girl with the hazelnut and the orange juice. The last thing he wanted or needed was to publically admit he was having dreams about some girl that lacked the erotic qualities of the dreams he ought to have been having about Tanya.

The girl whose name he did not know – orange juice, he was starting to call her in his head - was constantly re-appearing in his dreams. These dreams were simple enough, because it was like a cracked record, going over the same encounter endlessly. The only thing that was different is that his subconscious zoomed into strange little details that, in that moment, he did not notice. There had been a scar above her left eyebrow, running across her temple to her ear. A golden hazelnut shell – or had it been an acorn? – had fallen out of her _stuffy _satchel. Things that he didn't think about in the original meeting were occupying his spare thoughts.

The excess amount of time he spent thinking about this second girl – and agonizing over calling Tanya – was due to the fact that nothing else was occupying his thoughts. Edward had a flair for advanced math and had been raised listening to his father discuss government policies. One of his teachers had even gone as far as to call him a genius, although Edward took the statement with the corresponding pinch of salt. There was no way they could _genuinely _think he had an aptitude for a subject that made him want to vomit. He found absolutely every single lecture to be _dull. _His papers were lackluster and routine, because he found Economics as unappealing as a pair of old tits. He didn't venture away from the script in his papers, merely regurgitated what his professors said.

On some subconscious level, he was preparing to apply for Harvard Law School. He'd found no love for anything His future loomed before him, predictable and gray, like an inescapable, routine colonoscopy - and he desperately wanted to escape it. It was only a matter of time before his mother found him a suitable bimbo with the proper pedigree. He would be expected to court said girl while he went to Harvard Law School, and to attempt to produce children. It wasn't openly acknowledged, but it was an unspoken truth, that only he or Jasper would produce kids. Since he was so _unsuitable, _as Elizabeth frequently pointed out … Edward now believed it was very likely that his balls were defective and that he'd fail to do so.

What was more, at his meetings with his friends, he had spare time to _think. _It didn't matter to Alistair what Edward did or thought. His presence was an acknowledged given. During one of the encounters, he took out Tanya's card and began twirling it by spinning it like a whipping top.

Edward _knew _that he wasn't attractive, but that his "station" offered him plenty of opportunities to fuck. The opportunities hadn't presented themselves until now – theoretically. If anything, it only proved how undesirable, and skinny, weird and feminine Edward was. Should he call her?

Before he could go over the various pros and cons in his head, Alistair snatched the card from him with a laugh.

"Tanya Aleksandrov, R.R Donnelly, PR." Alistair read, with a mocking cackle.

Angrily, in a squeaky voice, Edward said, "Stop it."

He snatched it away from Alistair, who laughed harder.

Then, to sound more masculine, he added, "Don't be such a fucker."

Alistair gave him a "friendly" slap in the back and said, "Come on, Eddie, we're just fooling around."

"It doesn't seem like it," Edward said, the pitch of his voice still high, his posture defensive, like he was crouching on top himself. "Now, if you'll excuse me… I have a paper due tomorrow."

A paper that, he had pointed out earlier to Makenna, he had finished an hour earlier. Without further ado, he slapped five dollars onto the bar top, shoved his barstool closer to the table top, and left.

Minutes after he left the bar - fuming at their stupidity and wanting to prove a point - he decided to call Tanya. Once he found quarters in his jean-pockets, he made a bee-line for the nearest phone booth.

Still angry, he dialed.

Once the last number had been dialed, he realized what he had done. Sweat started to build up in his forehead. He had _never _called a girl; all of Jasper's insults about how he was a faggot and a pussy started running through his mind, and he felt his beer rise up his throat...

"Hello?"

... Out of nerves, he vomited on the pavement. Once had stopped, he hung up.

He was such a _fucking _loser.

* * *

**May 25****th****, 2020 **

**Phillips Academy **

**Commencement Speech **

"…Ladies and gentleman, it gives me great pleasure to introduce today's commencement speaker, Miss Isabella Swan…"

For the tenth time that day, Edward felt like puking. He had the distinct impression that he wore the petulant look of a seven-year-old that had just been denied candy. He was inclined to put down his sunglasses to hide his sulking façade, because it was most indeed a façade, but didn't. That would be admitting that this was affecting him. Luckily, he had 10 years of political experience under his belt, and that kept his nerves from exploding.

A month ago, Rose had warned him that EJ had warned _her _that Isabella would be speaking at his graduation. His classmates, who knew her to be his stepmother, asked. EJ said he couldn't refuse. In six short years, Bella had stopped being EAC (Edward Anthony Cullen's) _Cinder-bella, _nanny-turned-wife. Edward had read in some newspaper that Yo-Yo Ma had called her his successor.

Edward had always known she was special. He just didn't think that the entire world knowing just _how _special would give him an ulcer in the stomach. The thought of this commencement address had made him so nervous he hadn't eaten anything in weeks. As this day had come nearer and nearer, his dread had grown. The last two weeks, his neurosis and snappishness had made Tanya exile him to the guest bedroom.

Initially, he was _furious. _This ought to have been about his son's graduation from prep school, about the fact that EJ was captain of the football team and had been accepted into MIT without Edward making phone calls. Some of his anger dissipated as he realized her knees were shaking so hard it was visible from where he and his family were sitting. The speech in her hand shook visibly. After weeks of a nausea and fear…

…There she was, roughly 6 years since they parted. In the light, she seemed to be glowing. He hadn't ventured up close; there was too much to say, too much unresolved emotion. None of it could be adequately put into words. Today was supposed to be about his oldest son's graduation. Instead, it was about how she still aroused a maelstrom of emotion in him – love, hate, and everything in between.

When she started speaking, her voice steady and full of conviction, he felt as though his soul had returned to his body at the sound. He remembered why he had once loved her so much he thought his heart would burst. He remembered that she was graceful and strong, and that it made her beautiful.

"Dr. Yocom, Dr. Lowell, members of the board, faculty, staff, friends, proud family, and above all, graduates; for the privilege and honor of speaking to you today, I am truly thankful. Not only has Phillips Academy granted me an extraordinary honor, but the weeks of fear and nausea I have endured at the thought of giving this address…have made me lose weight."

There was a collective laugh. All across his row, all but Tanya and his mother didn't find the joke amusing; Jasper, his father, Rosalie and Emmett turned towards him and looked ashamed - as if afraid he was going to stop speaking to them. 13-year-old Beth had turned scarlet; she had slapped both of her hands against her face and was silently groaning. This was, she'd said, the most horribly embarrassing situation she'd been in.

"Delivering a commencement address is a huge responsibility. While I never finished High School and I did not graduate from the Virginia conservatory, my reference is my 8th grade graduation. The speaker that day was my middle school principal, Mr. Williams. Casting my mind back to his speech has helped me enormously in writing today's, because it turns out I cannot remember a single word he said." The audience laughed again – including Beth. Edward couldn't help it; he chuckled, too. Tanya and his mother snorted derisively.

"This liberating discovery has enabled me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to turn down your offer at some of the nation's best colleges." The audience laughed.

"In all seriousness, I have wrecked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I'd known at your age – when I was poised to leave the nest – and what important lessons I have learned since then.."

"This wonderful occasion is a celebration of your academic success as much as it is a rite-of-passage. It is one of life's great forward-looking ceremonies. Commencement marks life's ceremonial beginnings, with its own highly appropriate symbolism. Your ceremonial costume is shapeless and uniform. Regardless of your gender and size; regardless of how your interest and passion in your studies – or lack thereof -, each of you is dressed exactly the same. With the exception of the name written therein, the cheer-leader squad and the chess club diplomas are the same."

The audience laughed; Edward couldn't help it, and it bubbled out of him, too.

"It is, as I said, fitting symbolism, because even talent and effort do not inoculate anybody to failure, heartache or to life's vicissitudes. Put simply, you graduating seniors do not have any idea of what day-in, day-out really means. The trenches of adult life and filled with banalities that are rarely discussed. I am not dull enough to suppose that you have not experienced the emotions that come with life's daily banalities and routine: frustration and boredom. But things like rush-hour traffic, demanding bosses, office politics and mind games, taxes and bills, are not yet part of your daily life. But they will be."

The voice with which she said this reminded him of why he'd fallen in love – the wit behind the way she said things, the way she understood the world around her. He felt his butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

"…Along with many dreary, meaningless and tedious routines. It is not my intention to frighten you into eternal adolescence in a small apartment above your parent's garage; in fact, quite the opposite. This is where the matter of choosing comes in – because, as I have said, traffic jams, check-out lines and red-tape are something we must all come to face. If you don't make a conscious decision about how to think in such situations, life can easily become miserable and irritating.

"Our default setting is to believe that everything is about us – and most importantly, we often forget that we are not the only ones that trudging through life's daily difficulties and not the only ones that face hardship. Our default setting is to think that the problems we encounter are about us: about our frustration, about our pain, about our hunger, about our exhaustion. Especially when dealing with things like traffic, we tend to think that the people around us are in our way. In a check-out line, and in a traffic jam, it is easiest to think that it is our needs ought to influence the actions of world at large."

"There is scientific evidence to the contrary. Our earth is not the center of our solar system, our solar system is not the center of its galaxy, and our galaxy is not the center of the universe. In fact, it is believed that the universe has no center. Therefore, you cannot be it."

He laughed; it didn't stand out particularly, because everyone around him was laughing, too. Many parents around her were clapping.

"This has nothing to do with morality or dogma; it has nothing to do with righteousness. It _does_ have everything to do with your ability to imagine yourself into the lives of people that are different from yourself. Choosing to realize an empirical truth - that you are not the center of the universe - can help you take a walk in the shoes of people unlike you. The world is filled with people, and many of them are not as privileged as you are. But their heir lives like yours are not immune to banal platitudes. You can make the choice to think about others, and that choice stems from understand that in today's world, if you are one in a million there are 7,000 people just like you".

"This doesn't only apply to small gestures of kindness, although when I was working as a cashier, I came to appreciate the value of a gesture as small as a genuine smile. Minimum wage jobs are romanticized only by fools, and I am not going to lie; there is nothing as mind-numbing as sitting there, scanning supermarket products."

"For all its tedium, I learned more about the human condition as a cashier than I have as a cellist. Stress, finances and exhaustion often bring out the worst in people, and these three things often meet in supermarket queues. To keep myself from going stark-raving mad, I had to learn to keep from seeing people as dead-eyed, un-human, dirty and rude. I learned to invent stories about the most irritating people I came across, that - while not probable - were not impossible."

"I've learned since that I was as privy to frustration and exhaustion then as I am now. I have also learned that, as both a cashier and a cellist, I had the ability to influence the lives of the people around them. The privileged education that you have received here, however, gives you the power to alter the lives of a much wider circle of people than I did as a cashier. You have been privileged, and those privileges entail the responsibility to train yourself to think of the lives of others. As you stand on the threshold of real life, remember that there are 6.8 billion people around the world, and that your choices and actions affect them, too."

"At 17, I thought that I could not chose a life that would bring me joy and satisfaction. I thought that such a life and a life that would help the few people whose lives I could _make_ better were irreconcilable. I thought that my ability to play cello was an amusing personal quirk that would never pay a mortgage - " the audience snickered " - and that if I failed to pay a mortgage, I would fail at life as a whole. At 17, we give other people's conception far more weight than we should. Note, in parenthesis, that the people that try to influence you - your parents - do so in your best interest. I don't blame my parents for shaping my view of failure in the way that they did; there is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction."

He was one of the many parents that started cheering, as of his own accord. Once the laughter had died down, Edward was struck by the realization that he alone knew the details of what she was saying better than anybody else there. Which was probably why he was the only one whose laughter was subdued by anger, destined not at her, but at Renee.

"I have since learned that the best way to alleviate the frustrations of daily life in your own is to choose a job for no other reason that you love it and believe in its importance, in the same way that you wouldn't marry someone you weren't absolutely crazy about."

He was sure that there were at least fifty heads peering at him that very moment, and gauging his reaction; but in the split second she caught her breath, he was sure that their eyes met. It didn't matter that there were hundreds of other people around them; in that second, he was a boy that had just heard a girl say that she had loved him. Very slowly, a smile spread across his face.

"Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure. The best criterion to the worthiness of any job is not how much satisfaction it brings you, but how much it helps those around you. At best, your job should improve the lives of others, although you don't have to accept the conventional understanding of "improvement." At worse, it should not make them more difficult."

"Now before you go off and get your YOLO tattoo," she said with a wry smile, eliciting laughs and claps. "Take full advantage of your youth, and use it to explore the world around you. You don't only live once, you live only once. The fulfilled life is a consequence and a byproduct of your choices. The fulfilled life is what happens when you chose to think less about yourself and your own needs – and choose a life that brings _you _and others satisfaction. At 17, I thought that the two things were irreconcilable. Since, I have been pleasantly surprised to find that isn't the case."

"Climb the mountain not to plant your flag and be successful by conventional standards, but to embrace the challenge. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you. Go to Paris to be there, not to cross it off your bucket list and to appear worldly in front of others. In other words, become worldly because it will turn the lenses through which you see the world into a kaleidoscope; because broadening your horizons. Exercise free will and creative, independent thought; use your privileged, prep-school education not for self-furtherance, but for the furtherance of the rest of the 6.8 billion and those that will follow us. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you aren't special, because everyone is."

"Thank you."

* * *

**Parts of this speech are mine. Other parts are based JK Rowling's Harvard Commencement speech, Wellesley High's "You Are Not Special" commencement speech, and David Foster Wallace's "This Is Water", also a commencement speech. All three are fantastic, and I thought it was a good way to convey _why _Edward is in love with Bella. She, of course, does have flaws and these will pop up shortly. Thank you and please review!**


	12. Chapter 11: Edward

**March 17th – March 20****th****, 1999 **

It was easily becoming the most unbearable semester of his entire life. Had he been in Middle School – or even High School – he would've already staged some idiotic and self-destructive prank … like filling the cafeteria's juice dispenser with tequila, which he pulled in the 9th grade. Two pranks later, he was expelled. This time around, he felt horribly trapped, even suffocated because he knew there was precious little he could do to get himself expelled – and it wasn't worth putting four years to waste.

For the first time in his life, Edward was fulfilling his father's expectations beautifully. He hadn't ditched any of his Economics classes, and was at the top of his class. How he could get such a high GPA when he found the subject as painfully dull as testicle-waxing was beyond him. He was _bored. _His boredom was only aggravated that he found nothing else elicited passion in him. The more distance he put between himself and Alistair's clique, the more he realized he found no joy in anything. He had tried literature, languages and even a little bit of physics and chemistry. None of the subjects he studied elicited enough passion in him for him to think that he wanted to devote the rest of his life to their study.

His frat-boys had welcomed him back with open arms, but it only made him miserable. Everywhere he went, he felt out of place. Amongst Alistair's clique, he'd been too upper-crust. Amongst his frat-boys, many whose parents were somehow related to his father, he felt too sensitive. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was something inherently _freakish _about him. He was still as rail-thin and gangly as a 16-year-old boy, he still couldn't grow a beard or even a mustache. His acne was still in full bloom, and he was as horny as one could be without jacking off at the sight of a beautiful girl. After the fiasco that was calling Tanya, he'd been unable to go near a girl for a month.

The crushing loneliness he felt wasn't Alistair's fault, but his. With his frat-boys, too, he felt like his presence was accepted, but that his absence made no difference. With the frat-boys, too, he was surprisingly quiet – even when he was hammered. Edward was a funny drunk; he said weird shit, but none of it was incriminating. He didn't betray that which he wasn't supposed to. Able to hold his liquor, Edward spent the semester drinking Friday and Saturday nights, and then nursing a hang-over on Sunday.

He had spent the entire semester longing for the respite of spring break. The respite was delayed because he was a stupid _fuck. _One of his "friends" – who happened to be the son of one of Florida's republican senator – had invited him to Miami to spend the weekend. Edward didn't like the guy – Kevin – but he agreed. For some befuddling reason, his family found it more acceptable that he spend a weekend getting hammered in Miami than that he spend them building a hospital in Guatemala. A part of him was hoping that this would keep Jasper from teasing him so cruelly.

Speaking of which, he deeply regretted telling Jasper he hadn't lost his virginity. Because of his stupid revelation, he had spent three months looking for girls to lose it with. He hadn't been able to – not because he deflated or anything – but because it didn't feel right. Sometimes, he really did wonder if Jasper was right. Maybe he _was _gay and didn't know it. He had hooked up with 13 girls in 3 months; he had grabbed plenty of tits and had gotten five hand jobs. When any of them tried to blow him, he would just block them out and leave. In his drunken state, he'd said some funny things and now desperately needed to crush rumors he might bat for the other team.

Which is why, Sunday night, he found himself ingesting his second strawberry-flavored daiquiri in thirty minutes. It was in the most upper-tier neighborhood in Miami, in an absurdly over-the-top penthouse, decorated with ivory elephant fangs. Disgusted, and tired of his hosts' incessant brown-nosing (Kevin had asked Edward for Carlisle's opinion on most of the important legislation that year), he continued playing with his straw. He wasn't in the mood to dance (the euphemism for dry-humping) and talk in a circle (another euphemism for subtle bragging disguised as small-talk). Kevin was engaged in the former.

Usually, Edward would have, too. He wasn't in the mood to use the most effective tool in his arsenal - today, he had introduced himself to anything mildly fuckable as plain ole' Edward, s_ans _the Cullen portion. Edward was socially awkward and surprisingly unadapt at small talk, reminding him yet again that he was no doubt swapped at birth with the real Cullen child. The weekend and his host's brownnosing had exhausted it out of using his name as a way to assuage the tension.

Or so he thought.

"You called," Tanya Aleksandrov said, with that amused, impish smile. She took the seat next to him; in her hand, she held an olive martini.

"And then I _puked_," he said sullenly. He took a large swig off his daiquiri; there was no point in trying to restrain his drinking when he was so evidently drunk he was blurting out such things.

** "**Were you drunk?" Tanya asked, still amused, blue eyes twinkling. Edward's eyes trailed down to the low, plunging neckline that left very little to the imagination. Tanya smirked in self-satisfaction when she realized where his eyes where.

"I shouldn't have been," he said brazenly.

"You know, Edward," she said silkily, but gently, almost with pity. "You shouldn't need to get drunk to talk to women."

Edward snorted so hard he felt the daiquiri go up his nose.

"It's true," she said sweetly. Her pale hand found his; her fingers crawled up his arm until they were rubbing his non-existent bicep. "You're a very attractive man."

"If that's the case," he said brusquely, "then why hasn't anybody fucked me yet?"

She giggled gently. "That's not an indicator of attractiveness."

"It isn't?" he barked, roughly. "_You _were probably fifteen the first time they gave you a really good bang."

"I was thirteen," she corrected, impish, wearing a coquettish smile.

He raised his daiquiri as if making a toast. "I rest my case," he said.

"You _are,_" she insisted. "You're sweet, and smart, and caring and – "

Without further ado, he kissed her.

**April 5****th****, 2014 **

Edward returned from his second honeymoon several thousand bucks poorer and thinking his dick wouldn't recover. For some reason, the second he married her, he lost his ability to open his heart up to her. He didn't want to talk about anything intimate or painful, but she had said that doing so would make their marriage "stronger." Every time she tried to pry intimate thoughts out of him, he either fucked her or bought her something expensive. By the second week of the honeymoon, however, she realized how expertly her husband was manipulating her. Then she started _crying. _Horrified, Edward made up a childhood story about how Jasper had one of his girlfriends have an abortion. She accepted it but said that it wasn't enough to prove that he wasn't "emotionally detached."

Once, he read in a magazine that one left a gaping hole in one's life if one married one's mistress. (It was a pro-Bella tabloid article announcing his engagement, actually).

Marriage, he realized then with a sickening sort of finality, had completely transformed their relationship. Long gone was the sultry girl that had given him his first blow-job; that offered him coolheaded advice on how to go about his life; and that declared that she a fan of cuddling, much less marriage.

He was now literally grabbed by both balls; he couldn't divorce her for the time being, because he had _just _married her. It would destroy his public image.

He wouldn't realize this until years to come, but the honeymoon had destroyed the emotional portion of sex for him. Sex with Tanya had always been _fun. _Now it was a perfunctory exchange for his and her pleasure, and allowed them both to pretend that there wasn't an emotional barrier between them.

The knowledge that he was trapped in a one-sided love affair, however, was ever-present in his mind.

He had hoped his impending sense of doom didn't show in his face. To keep Tanya appeased, he had let her cuddle with him in the airplane, and hold his hand as the plane taxied. She insisted on cuddling yet again as they were driven to Edward's Richmond penthouse. She now looked self-satisfied and content; he was sure he wore an expression more befitting a colonoscopy. The chauffeured parked Edward's Aston Martin. She turned to look up at him with her lips puckered.

Tears flooded her baby blue eyes with amazing speed.

"Edward," she said tearfully. "Edward, darling, we just got _married. _I don't understand you, I just don't…"

She trailed off dramatically, reaffirming what Edward discovered less than eight hours after he said "I do." The Tanya he knew was gone, because that Tanya was straight-forward, blunt and pragmatic.

It took all of Edward's force of will to keep from groaning. What he _was _looking forward to was seeing his kids, and he tried to channel his excitement into his face. Quickly, he invented an excuse.

"I just hate how the chauffer treats the Aston," he lied smoothly. He caught the chauffer's eye in the mirror; the poor, mustached man looked apologetic and down-trodden. Edward didn't care, but for a split-second, he thought of Bella chastising him for it.

Tanya looked unconvinced. Almost panicky, Edward realized she was going to need some sort of _tender _gesture he could no longer produce. Nauseated, he placed a robotic kiss on her forehead. It did not, of course, satisfy her; she would keep nagging him about his emotional detachment until they parted ways.

He thought about moving away from the claws of her embrace, but then decided against it. After _minutes, _the woman decided to do so. The dejected-looking, elderly chauffer – Bella had been on a first-name basis with him, he realized – had left the car and was waiting outside it.

Tanya, wearing an equally devastated expression, finally released him. She looked at him with expectantly; he would come, in later years, to recognize that glance with a mixture of panic, irritation and a begrudging sense of duty. He offered her a tight smile; the wider he tried to make it the more his muscles twitched.

Quite theatrically, she "ughed" and turned her face away from him as if he just slapped her. Irritated – he didn't want to play whatever game she was playing – he got out of the car.

"Thank you," he said dryly to the driver. He hoped the man didn't notice the brief moment in which he tried to recall his name. To avoid feeling bad at the old man's abject expression, he took a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to him.

"Let me help you with the bags," the driver said in a small voice, still hunched over. Edward nodded curtly, suddenly filled with discomfort. Tanya had gotten out of the car. With a snooty look at the driver, she titled her chin up; her sunglasses were covering her face. The echo of her stiletto heels accompanied Edward as he and the driver carried the bags to the elevator.

"I don't know what the point of having hired help is if you have to carry your own bags," Tanya said with a conversational air, almost joking. Edward's eyes widened momentarily, and he was filled with a profound dislike for the blonde.

Hunching even further, the driver carried Tanya's monstrosity of a bag into the elevator. Tanya walked past him without sparing him a glance. Edward, for a change did; this time, when he smiled at the driver, there was genuine apology in his eyes.

When the elevator doors closed, Edward had a brief glimpse into the life of someone with agoraphobia. The tension in the elevator was so thick he had to loosen the collar of his oxford shirt. He remembered that after their honeymoon, he wore a t-shirt that said Got Milk because Bella thought it was funny. Again, he felt Tanya's eyes boring demandingly into his face, leaving him with the distinct impression that he was expected to express some romantic sentiment, like "_I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you._" Since there was nothing further than the truth, he resorted to – ironically – the seductiveness she had taught him.

He edged towards her and pressed a wolfish kiss to her jaw, and then began kissing his way across it. Finally, he began sucking at her earlobe. She giggled girlishly. Edward congratulated himself while making a mental note to make it clear to her through his actions that such gestures wouldn't be romantic in nature.

When the elevator doors opened to reveal his the penthouse he bought after – well, after _they _separated – he didn't lift her into his arms and carry her in. Instead, he almost immediately grabbed her massive suitcase and dragged it into the marble-floored foyer. Second later, he rushed into the living room.

Elizabeth– his daughter -, Rosalie and EJ were sitting across the coffee table, in the floor, playing some kind of board game. Beth rushed towards him, arms open, and jumped into his arms. EJ's face turned ashen and grim before he looked up at him, sullen and disdainful. Rosalie got off the floor and into the chair, and was watching the exchange with a carefully guarded expression.

He spun his daughter around several times, laughing and then lifted her up to press kisses on her cheek.

"Ew, Daddy, don't do that," she said, wrinkling her nose. She rubbed her cheek.

"Sorry if I missed you, Bee," he said playfully. He tickled her belly and she squealed before covering her stomach.

EJ had sat up and was sitting on the arm of the couch, shoulders slouched, his face expressionless and cold.

"Son?" he said gently, his arms open, offering an awkward hug. He walked towards EJ as if approaching a lion he wanted to tame. The more he looked into EJ's eyes, the more he realized that his son was looking at him torn between resentment and the desire to forgive.

"I bought presents," he offered. It worked; he saw EJ inch towards him.

Then for the fifth time that day, he compared Tanya to an enema.

"Hi, _guys_!" Tanya said in an excessively cheerful voice, so falsely saccharine Edward was sure both his kids would've detected it at the age of three. EJ made a tortured face of irritation that quickly transformed into a glare. Rosalie nudged him gently; something about they look they exchanged made him suspect they had a talk, because Rosalie was reprimanding him while being sympathetic.

Elizabeth was much more obedient, but wore a face befitting a bereavement. She stood on both her tiptoes, lips puckered, offering Tanya a kiss. Tanya took it with a self-satisfied smile Edward didn't like.

"Hello, Tanya," she said in a very formal voice. "I hope you had an _enjoyable _honeymoon."

She put a special emphasis on the word, as if she had just recently picked it up from some adult conversation. Once the kiss had been given, she turned to Rosalie, who nodded and gave her a small smile. Edward wanted to laugh. She was so _cute_.

Edward bent down and gave Rosalie a kiss on the cheek.

"How was the honeymoon?" she asked with a dryness that came from resignation, not spite. Something about the calmness in her face told him she and Emmett had decided to switch tactics altogether – and accept the fact that they were _married. _She and Tanya looked each other coldly, like rival hyenas measuring each other out. Finally, they seemed to agree that it was the proper thing to do; Tanya bent down to embrace Rosalie, and Rosalie accepted. They released each other after a beat-long, awkward hug.

Rosalie spun towards EJ, facing her nephew, presumably to encourage him.

EJ shrugged carelessly. He plugged an earphone into each ear; then, he put one of his shoes on the coffee table and the other on the couch. Tanya whimpered. She grabbed Edward's arm as if to steady herself, lest she faint.

"EJ, dear, could you _please _not put your dirty shoes on the couch?" she asked. "It _is _upholstered very expensively. That sofa cost your Daddy a lot of money."

EJ made a face like he was deeply irritated.

"I don't have to take orders from you," EJ sneered coldly.

"EJ, son, don't talk to her like that," Edward said. His honeymoon had given him a newfound appreciation to his son's plight, and he was willing to be patient.

EJ reacted as if Edward had slapped him across the face. Furiously, he kicked the coffee table forward so that it made a horrible screeching noise.

"_Fine!_" he yelled furiously. "_Take your whore's side, I don't give a damn!_"

Tears were stinging EJ's eyes, and he brushed them away with the heel of his hand.

"Edward, if you don't stop insulting Tanya like that so help me god – "

"You'll do what, you'll slap me?" he snarled defiantly.

Edward's mouth fell open. His son's eyes told Edward that there was more to the question than cheek; it was an accusation of something he'd seen.

Taking advantage of Edward's shock, EJ ran towards the swinging door to the kitchen, with such force it swung back and forth several times.

"Edward!" he yelled angrily; the sound of his tennis shoes squeaking as he ran up the penthouse stairs reached his ears. "Edward, come back!"

His son's door slammed so hard Bee jumped three feet in the air. If she hadn't jumped, he would've kicked the nearest vase. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand; the other, he ran across his hair as if to tug the skin off his forehead. Fortunately, Tanya had the good sense to say nothing and muttered something about calling Kate.

Once she left, Edward plummeted and collapsed into the nearest couch, and buried his face in his hands.

"Bee, love, go get your sweater," Rosalie ordered gently. Bee nodded, still apparently befuddled, confused and upset by the exchange.

"Edward," Rose said very gently. "Edward, he'll come around." She rubbed his shoulder comfortingly.

Edward didn't think so, and now that he thought about it – Rosalie probably would agree with him.


	13. Chapter 12: Edward

**March 20, 1999 **

**Miami, FL **

He didn't know how or why, but Edward found himself waking in a tangle of bed sheets, with Tanya's head resting firmly on his chest. His head was pounding so heavily, and the glare of the sun was unbearably intense, falling as it was through the drapes. Lazily, Tanya opened her eyes.

The beautiful blonde in his bed stretched out like a lazy cat. Leaning on her forearm, she smiled sultrily and began stroking his (three) chest hairs with one of her long, manicured fingers. She wore his oxford shirt.

Proving once again that there was something inherently wrong with him, he blurted out, panicky, "We didn't _do it_, did we?"

She smiled, once more, like she knew something he didn't.

"Define _it_," she murmured between kisses to his chest. Edward was suddenly lost in the sensation of her lips tracing lower and lower towards his … _thing. _Abruptly, she hitched one of her long legs over his body. Edward turned scarlet and purple in the same breath, as if something were constricting his air pipes. Before he knew it, he was rising steadily, all the while blushing hard and unable to meet her eyes.

She laughed.

"You got your first blow last night," she said with a sardonic laugh. "Pity you were too drunk to realize it."

"You blew me?" Edward said happily, a self-satisfied, lopsided grin spreading across his face.

"Like a balloon," she said, kneeling down and sucking on one of his nipples. Edward's body arched.

"_Oh._"

He put both of his palms behind the back of his head, lounging happily in his victory.

"And we could take it to the next level, Cullen," she continued sultrily.

Edward tensed, filled with sudden dread. There was something _wrong _about this, even though the scene unfolding was nothing short of romantic. They were in a sunlit, pristine bedroom, in a four-poster bed, with the sound of the beach (and the occasional honking car) as background music.

"You mean, like," he said childishly, in his most boyish voice. "You mean _like, _doing it?"

"It's called _sex_, Edward," Tanya said. The more time he spent with her, the more he felt like an inexperienced little kitten, learning from the worldly cat.

"I'm afraid I don't have time," he blurted stupidly. Why he didn't _want _to do it with a leggy, thin yet curvy, very attractive blonde was inexplicable. Like the faggot and wimp he was, he lifted the sheet up to cover his privates.

"Why, you have some prior commitment?" she asked, letting out a cackle like cold water that had precisely that effect. Edward started deflating, but wasn't about to let her think he _really_ was a faggot. He turned over and found his gold Rollex in his puddle of clothes. Hoping she wouldn't see right through him, he pretended to gasp in shock.

"_Shit_," he cussed. "I have a flight that leaves in an hour."

She didn't call his bluff, just ran a claw-like hand through her messy hair, which cascaded down her back. "We'll leave it for another time, then," she said as if she were arranging a dentist's appointment. Her demeanor was business-like as she climbed off him. She took off his shirt and threw it at him; scarlet-colored, he was putting on his boxer briefs as quickly as possible, even though he'd been in her…well, mouth.

When he turned around, she'd her black dress back on. Her hair was somewhat greasy, messy and tangled; there were black blotches around her eyes, of smudged mascara. She was still the sexiest woman he'd been with.

"Seriously, Cullen," she said with a wink. "We need to do this another time."

She retrieved one of her heels, where Edward distinctively remembered throwing it to the corner of the room. "You do have my number, don't you?"

Edward blushed and cleared his throat. He didn't want to admit that he carried her worn and torn card in the back pocket of one of his jeans for three months now.

She laughed like she was making fun of him in a good-natured kind of way. Edward swallowed when she stuck one of her hands into what he presumed was her bra. Out of it, she took out a card, then strut towards him. With a teasing smile, she put it in the back pocket of his trousers. She kissed him on the cheek; he found her lips.

"We'll do this later," he promised throatily, "just not now."

"Gotcha, champ," she said, brazen and unfazed. "Call me this time."

* * *

**March 21, 1999 **

**Seattle, WA**

Giddy with success, Edward spent his last afternoon with Kevin groping his maid's ass, drinking more daiquiris, and finally feeling like a full-fledged frat boy. Smiling cockily and acting beyond his years, he discussed politics with Kevin and Kevin's father as if he'd been in Congress for fifty years. When it was time to return, he promised his newly-selected "wingman" for yet another weekend of "bitch hunting." After his first blow job, he finally felt like accepting that he was Edward-fucking-Cullen, and that made him better than everyone else.

Once the plane took off, he felt like the King of the World – which he would be, of course, once his father hit the bucket. He flirted with the flight attendants even though she was 40 or so. Much to his amusement, she flirted back and said nothing when he casually brushed her ass with the back of his hand.

Rosalie was waiting for him when he went through the gate. With unprecedented confidence, he kissed her on the forehead and gave her a hug. The closer he got to her, however, the more she realized she looked _gaunt, _small, almost as if she'd shriveled up. Instinctively, he knew this had something to do with Royce King. Aside from an urge to punch the bastard's balls off, he said nothing and gave her another kiss in the forehead. Jasper was behind her, hands behind his back, studying him as always with superiority and mocking condescension.

Moodily and cautiously, Edward held out his hand for his brother to shake.

"You look like you got laid," Jasper said shrewdly, believing Rosalie was out of earshot. Their little sister wasn't; she gagged theatrically. Then she wrinkled her pert little nose distastefully.

"Could you to _not _discuss that in front of me?" she said. The comment sounded so weak it made both of her older brothers wince. Jasper brushed aside his teasing, but gave Edward a sinisterly evil look that said, "_This isn't over._"

As Rosalie was literally lifted off the chair, like dead weight, into the car, Jasper pulled Edward aside to talk. His anger at Jasper was enough to crush his concern for his little sister; not once in his entire life had he seen Rosalie look so _dead. _

"Seriously, did you?" Jasper asked tauntingly.

Jasper would know if he was lying; Jasper _always _knew when he was lying. Angry at the fact that Jasper had singlehandedly killed his buzz… Edward said sulkily, "Something like that."

"Did someone blow you?" he asked bluntly, his eyes still twinkling with amusement.

Edward snapped. "So what I they did? Why does it matter to you?"

Jasper ruffled his hair, but there was nothing brotherly about the gesture.

"We can't have a _faggot _in the family, Eddie boy, now can we?"

Leaving Edward speechless and angry, Jasper climbed into the seat besides the driver.

Much to Edward's shock, Rosalie actually put her head on his shoulder the entire ride there. Awkwardly but sweetly, he responded by stroking her hair.

They filled him in on Uncle William's new nurse, Isabella, Chief Swan's kid. Uncle William had refused to move into the governor's mansion in Olympia, and so Isabella was left to care for him by herself. Jasper maid a quip about how the girl had magic powers – an unqualified 17-year-old had managed to tame him in a way her predecessors hadn't – but Rosalie seemed much less enthused.

"She's seventeen? Isn't that illegal?"

"She dropped out in January, 'cause Chief Swan's out of commission, essentially, and she's supporting the two of them," Jasper said in a surprisingly casual sentence. "Dad was desperate and so was she, and so win-win situation."

Jasper was almost _nice _to Edward in front of Rosalie, but the peripheral glances he'd throw his way said this was only a momentary truce.

"And they get along?" Edward asked in shock.

"No," Rosalie was quick to answer. "She's just much more _forceful._"

It signaled the end of all Isabella-related conversations; they turned to Edward's academic record. Jasper had to bite his lips to keep from making cruel jokes about Edward's scholastic aptitude. Edward didn't elaborate on Miami, or on the semester as a whole for that matter. He was just overwhelmingly, deliciously glad to be home.

"Are we going back to Forks?"

"Yeah," Rosalie said quietly, staring out the window. "You know Daddy doesn't like official residences. We're heading back to Olympia after spring break is over."

Almost immediately after they got home, Edward barreled up the stairs to lock himself in his room. Within minutes, Laura – or was it Lauren? – appeared at the threshold under the pretense of "dusting". Much more confident, Edward almost jumped on her, sucking on her neck.

They ended up in his shower, where Lauren Mallory gave him the second blow job of his life. After her hair was somewhat dry, he dismissed her but gave her enough kisses to compensate for his condescension. With a slight look of outrage but with the promise of tomorrow shining in her pale blue eyes, she left his room. Thereafter, half-naked and deliciously relaxed, Edward took a nap and slept like a baby.

His mother woke him up at 6:50 for dinner; Edward arrived late, at ten past seven. As such, he had the misfortune of sitting next to Uncle William, with his back to the kitchen, right across of his well-beloved sister-in-law.

"You're late," Carlisle said snappishly. Like his sister, his father looked like the abject incarnation of death.

"Nice to see you, too," Edward said, out of self-preservation and pity, without bite in his voice. Carlisle always took out his frustrations on his middle child.

Once again, they were eating in absolute silence; the only sounds were the occasional slurp and the sound of spoons sinking into soup.

Uncle William muttered drowsily, "Isabella! My cold cucumber soup! Isabella!"

"Coming, reverend," the aforementioned Isabella thrilled back in a slightly irritated – but, to the girl's credit, not openly crazed. Edward heard her put down a tray behind the table, but was only paying attention to the decadent flavors of the soup.

As the girl set down the plate of soup to spoon-feed his great-uncle, he did notice the girl's deliciously round butt was in his hand's vicinity. Nobody but Uncle William would notice, and the decrepit Reverend was muttering instructions to her drowsily.

Without thinking about it, Edward gave her butt a deliciously hard squeeze.

"_Wa – ha - ha_!" The contents of the soup she was holding spilled onto the floor and Uncle William's lap.

Uncle William woke up from his stupor with a start; Elizabeth looked livid.

Edward didn't have the decency to blush. Instead, he looked up at her, irritated at her lack of decorum. When she met his stare, he realized he was looking at the big, brown eyes of the orange-juice girl from the airport.

"_You!_"

Before he knew it, the contents of Uncle William's late night cap – milk with a tea spoon of brandy – were being _poured _on his head.

* * *

**November 22nd, 2018**

**Forks, Washington **

"Honey, you look so _cute_!" Rosalie half-screeched the second Elizabeth walked through the door. Twelve, tall and gangly – much like Edward had been at that age – she was wearing a brand-new pair of braces. Edward (personally) agreed, but had been subject to a lecture on the topic of why a) this wasn't the case and b) his (emphatically) misinformed opinion was of no consequence. EJ had made some snide comment about how much _nicer _he was when his clearly pubescent daughter complained.

"You do, metal-teeth," seventeen-year-old EJ said with an amused cackle. Indignantly, Elizabeth rammed him on the ribs with her skinny elbow. EJ dropped the whale-sized suitcase he was helping carry inside; Edward was carrying Tanya's other _two _suitcases.

"Jesus, Bee," he moaned, rubbing his ribs. "That hurt, goddamit."

"Edward!" Edward barked at his namesake. "Don't say shit like that in front of your little sister."

EJ gave his father a seething look.

Before picking up the suitcase – and leaving it as an obstacle in Edward's wake – he walked up to Rosalie, who gave him an indulgent kiss on the cheek. The boy had a knack for getting into trouble and was the second largest pain in his ass.

"How's my handsome little boy?" Rosalie cooed. EJ gave her his very charming, lopsided, wicked grin; one that, Edward had in good authority, had gotten him into bed with women twice his age. Edward had tried a sex talk with his son some years ago. The boy relished making it difficult but insofar, to the best of Edward's knowledge, he was neither an incubus for crabs nor a father.

"He's not little," Beth pointed out grudgingly, and started shoving the suitcase towards EJ as if attempting to pick it up.

"But he _is _handsome," EJ quipped back, good-naturedly. He took the suitcase from his sister's hands and picked the monstrosity with ease.

"You'll break your teenaged little bones, hand that over. Aunt Rose, where do you want Stalin's suitcase to go?"

Rosalie bit smile. Deep down inside, Edward did, too.

The aforementioned Stalin – his gorgeous, leggy wife -had just entered the governor's mansion. She gave EJ a disdainful glare, one that the boy returned with a playful, cheeky smile. Then she plastered one of her pedantic smiles on her face and turned towards Rosalie, who was hugging Elizabeth hello. Rosalie's face darkened for a fraction of a second before she returned to her courteous self.

Tanya and Rosalie studied each other like two lionesses circling their territory; finally, the former bent down and gave her a curt, formal kiss on the cheek. Edward followed and gave her a very warm hug, kissing her on the forehead.

"How's Dad?"

Rosalie sighed sadly. "He's doing well," she said cautiously. "I think it cheered him up that the grandkids are coming."

Lady Elizabeth had become significantly less pedantic with the passage of time, and Edward had been pleasantly surprised to find she was actually very sweet with his children. His wife on the other hand…

"Elizabeth," she said sweetly to his mother; his daughter didn't even look up from her stuffed tomato. "I was wondering if there was something else I could have as an entrée? I don't want to have cous-cous."

"You know, it makes no difference," EJ said brazenly. "It's not going to curtail the effects of menopause."

Bee laughed and everyone else fought very hard to curtail theirs.

Tanya shot EJ a nasty glare; he gave her a charming little smile. Edward knew he had to snip, even though this was a regular occurrence, a well-orchestrated tit-for-tat. Tanya didn't snap back because that was where Edward drew the line; he knew he had to snip, and he did.

"Stop it," he chastised irritably.

"Well, I mean – if you want to get technical, she is about to hit – "

"Edward," Edward barked.

"You did marry a woman three years older and – "

"_Edward!_"

"Grandma," Bee asked quickly, to keep it from escalating. "What are we having for dinner?"

"Oh, strawberry tart, love," Elizabeth Sr. answered happily.

"Oh, is that in Tanya's honor?"


	14. Chapter 13: Isabella

**March 1990 **

**Truth or Consequences, NM **

Randal Welles was the second husband of Renee Higginbotham's, but he was far along in a line of many, many lovers. He was tall, portly, and well-built, with a clean-shaven head. White stubble lined his square jaw. His blond eyelashes, framed a pair of dark blue eyes. He was fifteen years older than his wife of six months, and twice that amount older than his little stepdaughter. Randal was still, regardless, a very handsome man. Eight-year-old Bella was absolutely terrified of him. She was willing to put aside her terror, because in so far, Randall made Renee deliriously happy.

Doe-eyed Bella was much smaller than her age would suggest, resembling a six, or even five-year-old. She wore a large pair of pink-rimmed round glasses that made her eyes look toad-like and her forehead, proportional; without them, it appeared far too large. The glasses were held together by a large amount of tape, which had turned the bridge of her pert little nose red. Her hair was cropped short and uneven, cut short at the nape of her neck. It made her think that she resembled an effeminate little boy.

Back in California, where they had spent most of Bella's life, she was teased mercilessly by her classmates. This teasing was one of the reasons why her hair was cropped short.

A particularly malicious girl had come to Bella in false friendship, promising to give her a hair-cut that would leave her like a fairy princess. Blind-folded, Bella had gone into the girl's bathroom, hoping to look pretty and filled with unbelievable joy because she had finally found a friend. Cackling, they had left after a couple of minutes, when Bella's heart dropped to the floor. When she removed the bandana wrapped around her eyes, she saw all of her mahogany hair in the dirty bathroom floor of PS 312.

Renee had picked her up immediately; she wrapped Bella in her arms and told her everything would be fine. It hadn't been, despite Renee's best efforts. Bella had cried her eyes out as the stylist had cut her hair into a nice boy-like cut, the likes of which she now wore because it hadn't grown back. Renee had driven her around and bought her some ice-cream, which had cheered Bella up considerably. It didn't stop her from going crying every night. At that time, Renee had already married Randal after a six-week courtship. At that time, she and Grandma Marie were already estranged.

There had been two or three men when Bella was little – far too little for her to remember much. Felix, Randall's predecessor, scared Bella because he would come home drunk. While Randall preferred to ignore Bella's existence, Felix had pointedly acted as though Bella was the bane of his existence, constantly slamming his large, beefy hand on tables if Bella – five or six at the time of the relationship – ever dropped something or asked for Renee's attention. When Felix slammed his hand, the world around Bella burst into fireworks of dark, brown-tinted red.

Renee always would give her daughter loving attention, in spite of Felix's protests - which was why Renee had ultimately left. Tall, blue-eyed and slim, Renee had never had much difficulty attracting men or trouble. Randal seemed like a good choice of partner, especially in Bella's eyes.

Bella had already shed tears over being separated from her beloved Nana Marie, and she felt nothing but overwhelming relief at leaving Riverside, CA, and starting anew in Truth or Consequence, a small, impoverished town in New Mexico.

Clinging to Renee's hand, she gazed in wonder at the dessert-like yellows, dark-reds and browns of the dessert landscape; she marveled at the way the yellow grass, product of a drought of two decades, crunched under her feet. Instead of being appalled by the holes in the pavement, she found them quite fun.

"Welcome home, ladies," Randal said when he opened the squeaky door to their one-bedroom, one-floor home. The _squeaking _made the world turn into a burst of bright, blinding yellow. When Bella described these "bursts of color" to Renee, she usually laughed and dismissed it as child's play. Renee dropped Bella's hands and rushed to Randal, enveloping her arms around his neck.

Laughing gruffly, he swept her off her feet and walked into the house.

Holding both of her backpack straps, little Bella walked into her small new residence while her mother kissed Randal passionately, giggling like a school girl. It stank of cigars and the carpet smelled of feet; the curtains seemed to be covered in fungi, and were a faded mixture of pinks and greens. Upon further inspection, Bella realized they had once been patterned.

"Mommy, it smells like cigarettes," she pointed out, approaching the kissing couple.

Randal's face darkened. Almost immediately, his hand fell on Bella's head with a loud _thunk _that left Bella feeling dizzy. She resisted the urge to cry, but her eyes stung.

"Randal!" Renee screeched. "Randal, for fuck's – I mean god's - sake!"

She sprung free from Randal's burly arms and crouched around Bella, inspecting her head for injuries.

"I won't do it again," Randal breathed angrily. Renee's fingers slowed when they found nor bump nor bruise.

He took out a Marbolo carton from the pocket of his faded jeans and lit it. He gave Bella an angry glare. "Just don't let her go insultin' what I is giving her, alright, babe?"

"Randal's right, honey," Renee said sternly, still caressing Bella's head, inspecting injuries. "He's worked really hard for us to have all this."

Bella nodded, brown eyes wide, still trembling. With Renee's hands on her shoulders. she was steered to a stretch of furniture-less, dust-covered carpet. Thinking of the opportunity this new town offered – a place where nobody would tease her for the shortness of her hair, for her slight lisp or call her liver-lips - she sat down and began to play with one of her chewed-up Barbie dolls.

She helped Renee make her a bed out of the sofa next to the small kitchenette, where the aging freezer made a never-ending low rumble.

That night at dinner, Renee asked Randal if they could buy _at least _a sleeper sofa.

"Money'll be short for a little while, hon," Randal said gruffly between mouthfuls of Ramen noodles; Renee didn't know how to cook.

"But Randal – I don't want her sleeping in that couch, it's uncomfortable."

"She's a kid," Randal said between mouthfuls; bits of dehydrated carrots flew out of his mouth. "She can fit into it."

"Randal, please – "

Randal took the spoon out of his mouth and glowered at her, slamming his beefy hand onto the table.

"Goddamit, Renee, I'm workin' real hard to get you guys all this stuff and this is how you thank me?"

Renee looked down at her own bowl of soggy, shrimp-flavored Ramen. "I'm sorry, babe, I wasn't thinking."

"I forgive you," Randal said, with a long-suffering sigh. After a heartbeat, he gave her a goofy smile. He stretched out his hand across the table to squeeze Renee's small one. Bella hadn't realized how hairy it was until then.

Bright-eyed and giddy, Renee's face lit up. She rose from her chair and tip-toed towards Randal. He chuckled as he took her into his lap. He began sucking on her neck ravenously. Bella knew better than to do gag as she wanted to, but she was suddenly terrified about the way her mother's neck was being sucked and the way Randal's hand was snaking up her pants.

Renee began to moan in pleasure. Wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, Bella watched in horror – unable to understand why her mother was enjoying Randal's dry lips on her neck. In between moans, Renee asked him to stop.

"Why should I?" he demanded wolfishly. "You're my wife. The kid can go play outside."

Renee shook her head weakly; her eyes were shut in pleasure.

"Haven't you heard the phrase no _means no?_"

"No," Randal said simply between bites of the flesh on her neck. "Besides, you don't _want_ me to stop."

Renee let out a cackle of laughter when his other hairy, beefy hand gave her breast a tight, almost aggressive squeeze. Bella drew in a sharp breath, and opted instead to stare at her noodles as if they fascinated her.

Over the next six months, Bella took the tendency to stare at things, to study them intently. She began to pretend that she had an imaginary friend called Maurice, with whom she had lengthy and animated conversations – because, contrary to what she had hoped, the kids at her new school did not take to her with much enthusiasm. They too made fun of her short-cropped hair, of her lisp, and her thickly rimmed glasses.

When she stared at things are talked to Maurice, Randal would grab her by the shoulders. He would look at her and say,

"You aren't very smart, are you, kid?"

Terrified, Bella wouldn't say anything. It terrified her how he would make her mother scream at night, how he would grab her breasts and buttocks hungrily, how he left tiny love marks all over her mother's body. The _thuds _in the head had become so frequent that Bella had developed an uncanny ability to duck. She ducked and jumped at all sorts of loud noises, particularly because different thuds would lead to bursts of different tones of color.


	15. Chapter 14: Edward

**Playlist to go along with this chapter: **

**- "How Bizzare" by OMC**

**- Cello Suite #2 in D Minor: Courante by Bach **

**- "La valse d'Amelie" by Yann Tiersen, Orchestra Version.**

* * *

**March 22****nd****, 1999 **

**Forks, WA**

Almost immediately after they got home, Edward barreled up the stairs to lock himself in his room. Within minutes, Laura – or was it Lauren? – appeared at the threshold under the pretense of "dusting". Much more confident, Edward almost jumped on her, sucking on her neck.

They ended up in his shower, where Lauren Mallory gave him the second blow job of his life. After her hair was somewhat dry, he dismissed her but gave her enough kisses to compensate for his condescension. With a slight look of outrage but with the promise of tomorrow shining in her pale blue eyes, she left his room. Thereafter, half-naked and deliciously relaxed, Edward took a nap.

He slept like a baby.

His mother woke him up at 6:50 for dinner. Edward arrived late, at ten past seven. As such, he had the misfortune of sitting next to Uncle William, with his back to the kitchen, right across of his well-beloved sister-in-law.

"You're late," Carlisle said snappishly. Like his sister, his father looked like the abject incarnation of death.

"Nice to see you, too," Edward said. Out of self-preservation and pity, his voice wasn't sarcastic. Carlisle always took out his frustrations on his middle child, and Edward could tell he was furious today. He wanted to avoid a confrontation.

The family dined in absolute silence; the only sounds were the occasional slurp and the sound of spoons sinking into soup.

Uncle William muttered drowsily, "Isabella! My cold cucumber soup! Isabella!"

"Coming, reverend," the aforementioned Isabella trilled back in a slightly irritated – but, to the girl's credit, not openly crazed - voice. Edward heard her put down a tray behind the table, but was only paying attention to the delicious flavors of the soup.

As the girl set down the plate of soup to spoon-feed his great-uncle, he did notice the girl's deliciously round butt was in his hand's vicinity. Nobody but Uncle William was close enough to see, and the decrepit Reverend would not notice.

Without further ado, Edward gave her butt a deliciously hard squeeze.

"_Wa – ha - ha_!" The contents of the soup she was holding spilled onto the floor and Uncle William's lap.

Uncle William woke up from his stupor with a start; Elizabeth looked livid.

Edward didn't have the decency to blush. Instead, he prepared himself to glare, irritated at her lack of decorum.

When she met his stare, he realized he was looking at the big, brown eyes of the orange-juice girl from the airport.

"_You!_"

Before he knew it, the contents of Uncle William's late nightcap – milk with a teaspoon of brandy – were being _poured _on his head.

He jumped up several feet in the air, startled, and spluttered out the brandy, shaking his hair like a lion shaking its mane. Rosalie looked disgusted, dropped her spoon and pushed her milk-brandy tainted soup away from her.

Edward turned towards Isabella, his heart in his throat.

She peeked at him defiantly through her eyelashes. Her eyes were filled with dislike and irritation.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cullen, Reverend," she said apologetically.

Edward spluttered indignantly in conjunction with his mother, whose eyes had turned to slits, zeroing in on Isabella Swan.

"Oh," she said, nonchalantly, a perfect image of nonchalance, "I'm sorry."

She pulled out a rag from her pockets and bent down to dab it. Instinctively, Edward bent down with her, taking his own napkin. In the absence of shock, Uncle William went back to snoring lightly and staring at the ceiling.

"Do you _always _grab people's – buttocks – or is it just _mine_?" she hissed at him.

In an equally hissy whisper, Edward retorted, "Look, sweetheart, you should just thank me for – "

"_Ouch!_"

At the moment when she lifted her head, he lifted his. Their foreheads crashed dramatically against each other's midway through the air. Before she could fall back, he grasped her forearm to steady her.

"Are you alright?" he asked. His voice was thick with both irritation and sudden concern.

She wrenched her forearm out of his grasp.

"Geez, sweetheart, you'd think you'd be sorry."

"I am. So, so, terribly, terribly sorry," her voice was thick with sarcasm.

Edward spluttered indignantly.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, walking past him. Her hand was rubbing her forehead gingerly. "I need to mop this up."

When she came back, with a mop – Elizabeth glowered at her as if she were some dirty insect to be crushed under her feet – Edward was still fuming. His milk-drenched hair was still plastered to his forehead, and he was still so indignant he couldn't form words.

Elizabeth seemed appalled that there was a mop in the vicinity; she was eyeing the mop as if it was virulent.

"Edward, darling, could you please _sit?_" Elizabeth demanded, evidently upset and trying to hide it.

Rosalie and Jasper were biting their lips to keep from laughing. Carlisle was staring off into the distance, twisting his class-ring in his finger.

"I think I should go _change,_" Edward spluttered, still shell-shocked.

Isabella was then mopping; she was digging her teeth into her lips, as if amused by some secret joke. When he looked at her, she met his stare with dislike.

Her eyes were so _big_, like saucers, like a doe's.

"I am sorry, Governor," Edward heard Isabella say to his father, in what sounded to Edward like a perfectly genuine voice. He met her stare again as he throttled up the stairs and she walked back into the kitchen; her eyes were unfathomable.

"That's alright, dear," Carlisle said. He sounded startled, as if her apology had brought him down from some daydream. Edward had just noticed that he had been staring intently at his class ring, lost in thought.

Edward huffed. When he reached his room, he ripped off his oxford, he threw it on the carpet. It smelled faintly of brandy. Roughly, he dried his hair with the nearest towel and dropped it to the ground.

When he caught sight of his reflection, he stopped abruptly. His heart was pounding and his pupils were dilated. He had spent days and nights dreaming of this girl in a very ambiguous way, and _there she was. _Doe-eyed, and fair-skinned – so fairly skinned, he realized, that he easily saw the veins in her forehead even without careful attention. Jesus. She was just so _pretty. _

He took a moment to compose himself, breathing heavily. The Orange Juice encounter meant absolutely nothing, and neither did she. Neither did Tanya, for that matter. He took a deep breath, and calmer and more collected, made his way back to the dining hall – from which she, and his Uncle, had disappeared.

* * *

**March 23****rd****, 2013 **

**Forks, WA **

While Laura waited patiently in the moldy couch in the "outhouse", Edward smoked with his father and brother until 11:30. That part of the house was separated from the mansion by a small courtyard, and had been built to satisfy turn-of-the-century society. In the 1900s, it had been inhabited by 20 people. To Edward's knowledge, the only two people living in the 10-bedroom building today were Isabella and Carmen. _Why _they didn't just sleep in one of the third floor's smaller bedrooms was beyond his understanding.

His siblings and his father euphemistically called her the "outhouse", but his mother preferred the antiquated "servants' quarters." It was two stories tall and had – to Edward's knowledge – ten rooms. The ground level was used by SS agents to monitor the house's safety. The second story was used – to Edward's knowledge – by Isabella Swan and Carmen. Why the pair did not use the small bedrooms in the third story was beyond him.

He pretended to be heading for bed. Once he was sure all were asleep, Edward tip-toed down the stairs and into the kitchen. The clock read 1:30 A.M. He wondered if Laura was awake but presumed she was, and began loosening his collar on the way down the stairs.

Lights from a lamplight lighting the porch lit the marble counters. The idea of seeing Laura was enough to offset his exhaustion – he could feel his dick rising with anticipation. Suddenly thirsty - he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets in search of a cup. Once he'd retrieved one, he headed towards the stainless steel sink, which faced the outhouse.

Before turning on the faucet, he froze. His breath caught in his throat as he heard the faint sounds of a melody emerging from the second floor of the outhouse. Gingerly, he placed the cup on the counter. As in a trance, Edward followed the sound of the music. The door squeaked as he opened it; Laura didn't wake. Snoring softly, she slept with both legs hanging over the moldy arm of the couch. Edward would have noticed – and been aroused by – her hand on her breast – but he didn't care.

He was too entranced.

Breathless, eyes wide, he tiptoed up the staircase – wincing as it squeaked under his feet. The music stopped abruptly, and he felt his hand jump to his throat. Within seconds, Edward saw her at the top of the stairs, alarmed. Her hair was in disarray, framing her face and unkempt. Her eyes were wide, and her hand was on her throat. She wore a massive T-shirt that hung past her knees.

It was the nightcap of Bailey's he drank earlier; she can't have been that _beautiful. _

"Did I wake you up?" she panted. Her voice lacked the hostility he associated with her.

He was still too entranced to care. She was backlit by the light emerging from the corridor behind her. She looked like a hallucination, which given his nightcap and carton of cigars, she may as well have been. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated.

"I – I …"

Behind them, Lauren snored loudly. Isabella turned towards Lauren and snorted amusedly.

"She's been waiting for you," she informed him. "So if you two crazy kids want to start doing it – don't stop on my account."

He ignored the Lauren comment – was it a joke? Or was it a jab?

"Was that you playing?"

He sounded so desperate he blushed.

_She _turned scarlet, too.

"Yes, it was," she whispered in a voice so low he barely heard her. She sounded peevish, as if she'd been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

"Where did you learn how to play like that?"

"Nuns," she answered immediately, with a fond, dreamy, far-away look in her eyes.

"Nuns," he repeated, with an incredulous snort. He laughed.

She arched her eyebrows and glowered at him. "If you're done insulting my cello instructors, I should probably go back to be – he – hed."

He half lunged towards her, wrapping his long fingers around her wrist. The stairs squeaked loudly, a symphony of discord under his feet.

He could feel all of the little bones underneath. Suddenly, he felt as if he were holding something precious.

"Please don't," he said, desperately again.

She wriggled her hand free by gently unhooking his fingers.

"Does your Uncle need anything?" she asked, her brow creasing.

"Erm, no – erm, I – _I _- I need a …" He racked his brains.

"If you need somebody to play with little Edward down there," she gestured towards his crotch, "I think Lauren is more than available."

"Lauren!" he said excitedly. "I _knew_ her name wasn't Laura."

She glowered at him again. "Yes, well – if you'll excuse me…"

"Wait," he cried again, grabbing her wrist. Beneath him, the stairs squeaked their complaint.

When she turned towards him, her face was filled with irritation. For the first time, he noticed there was a raised scar from the tip of her chocolate-colored eyebrow to her temple.

"I don't want you to think I'm some kind of playboy," he said roguishly. He released her wrist very delicately.

"Now, why would I think _that_?" she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

"I'm not," he said seriously.

She actually laughed.

"I haven't been around you more than – "

Lauren snored behind them; she lowered her voice to a hiss.

"I haven't been around you more than an hour and you've tried to grab my ass two times."

Political genes gone out the window, he said roguishly and nonchalantly, "I thought you were Lauren."

"At the airport, too?"

"I didn't try to grab your ass at the airport," he retorted defensively.

He folded his arms across his chest, adopting the stance he did when he'd smoked in middle and high school.

"You tried to hit on me at the airport."

"Well, you should have been flattered, _sweetheart_,_" _he retorted.

She lifted both her hands and ran them through her hair as if she wanted to stretch her skin off her face.

"I _am,_" she said in a voice so saccharine he knew she was taunting him, "so, very, very flattered. Now, if you'll excuse me some of us have things to do tomorrow and the day after that. Good night, Mr. Culle – Edwar – Mr. Edwa –"

"You can call me Edward," he interrupted her softly.

She rolled her eyes but actually gave him a small smile. "Alright, good night."

"Good night, Isabella," he whispered back.

"Tell me if my cello ever wakes you up."

"I will."

Edward trotted down the stairs; Lauren was still snoring soundly. He wondered if he should wake her. He opted not to, and instead re-arranged her limbs on the couch. Immediately, she curled into a ball.

He didn't notice Isabella watching him, her brow wrinkled in confusion, peeking from the top of the stairs.


End file.
